15-3 


COMPLETE    POEMS 


Copyright,    1882,    1886,    1887,    1888,    1889,    1890,   1892, 
1895,     1896,    1898,    1899,     1905,     1906,     1910,    by 

S.    WEIR   MITCHELL. 

Copyright,   April    1906,   by 

P.    F.    COLLIER  AND    SON,    INC. 

Copyright,   April    1914,   by 

JOHN    WANAMAKER. 

Copyright,    1896,    1900,    1907,    1914,    by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published,    October,   1914. 


The  several  volumes  of  Dr.  Mitchell's  poems 
have  been  gone  over  with  care  and  certain 
unimportant  omissions  have  been  made  from 
this  book.  It  is  believed  that  the  present  col 
lection  contains  all  that  can  be  called  thor 
oughly  representative  of  the  author's  best 
productions. 


CONTENTS 


DRAMATIC  POEMS  PAGE 

FRANCIS   DRAKE 2 

PHILIP  VERNON 45 

RESPONSIBILITY 94 

WIND  AND  SEA 100 

THE  SHRIVING  OF  GUINEVERE 107 

THE  SWAN-WOMAN        in 

A    MEDAL 122 

THE  HUGUENOT 126 

How  LANCELOT  CAME  TO  THE  NUNNERY  IN  SEARCH  OF 

THE  QUEEN .131 

THE  HILL  OF  STONES 134 

THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH        145 

MY  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES 173 

How  THE  POET  FOR  AN   HOUR  WAS   KING     ....   177 

THE  VIOLIN 182 

FRANCOIS    VILLON 194 

THE  MISER:  A  MASQUE 211 

THE  WAGER 220 

BARABBAS 234 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

THE  MOTHER 259 

OF  DEATH  AND  OF  ONE  WHO  FELL  ON  THE  WAY     .     .  267 

OF  THE  REMEMBERED  DEAD 269 

E.  D.  M 270 

PAINED  UNTO  DEATH  :     E.   K.   M 271 

THE  WHOLE  CREATION  GROANETH 271 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW:    THE  CENTURION     .  273 

A  CANTICLE  OF  TIME 276 

LINCOLN 279 

COLERIDGE  AT  CHAMOUNY 280 

TENNYSON 281 

CERVANTES    .  .  282 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

OF  A  POET — WRITTEN  FOR  A  CHILD 284 

HERNDON 284 

THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  REGICIDES  :    LUDLOW  AND  BROUGH- 

TON 286 

KEARSARGE 287 

How  THE  CUMBERLAND  WENT  DOWN 288 

MY  CASTLES  IN  SPAIN 290 

DREAMLAND 294 

THE  QUAKER  LADY 296 

THE  QUAKER  GRAVEYARD 299 

DOMINIQUE  DE  GOURGUES 300 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  EMMELINE 305 

A  PSALM  OF  THE  WATERS 310 

EVENING,  AFTER  A  STORM  ON  THE  RISTIGOUCHE  RIVER     .  313 

RAIN   IN   CAMP 316 

ELK   COUNTY 316 

A  CAMP  IN  THREE  LIGHTS 320 

LAKE  NIPIGON 322 

NIPIGON — EVENING  STORM 322 

NIPIGON — NOONDAY  WOODS 323 

AFTER  SUNSET — LAKE  WEELOKENEBAKOK 325 

THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA 326 

THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS 328 

ROMA 329 

VENICE 331 

VENICE  TO  ITALY 332 

THE  DECAY  OF  VENICE 332 

PISA:    THE    DUOMO 333 

THE  VESTAL'S  DREAM 334 

AFTER  RUYSDAEL 334 

AFTER  ALBERT  CUYP        335 

NEAR  AMSTERDAM  :     AFTER  ALBERT  CUYP 336 

AFTER    TENIERS 337 

MILAN  :     DA  VINCI'S   CHRIST 337 

BRUGES  :     QUAI  DES  AUGUSTINS — AFTER  VAN  DER  VEER  .  339 
THE  WAVES  AT  MIDNIGHT:    THE  CLIFFS,   NEWPORT     .  340 

THE    RISING    TIDE 341 

EVENING  BY  THE  SEA 341 

BEAVER-TAIL  ROCKS:     CANONICUT 342 

THE  CARRY:   NIPIGON 343 

IDLENESS 344 

THE  LOST  PHILOPENA:     To  M.  G.  M 344 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

GOOD-NIGHT 345 

COME   IN 345 

Loss        346 

A  GRAVEYARD 346 

OCTOBER        346 

SEPTEMBER 347 

You  AND  I 347 

THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  SNOWS  :    A  NORWEGIAN  LEGEND     .  348 

ST.    CHRISTOPHER:     FOR   A    CHILD 351 

LINES  TO  A  DESERTED  STUDY 353 

AN  OLD  MAN  TO  AN  OLD  MADEIRA 355 

ADAM  :    A  HUNGARIAN  LEGEND 356 

To  THE  FORGET-ME-NOTS  :     ON  THE  PASS  OF  THE  MAID 
EN,   JAPAN 358 

To  A   MAGNOLIA  FLOWER 359 

ON   A   BOY'S   FIRST   READING   OF  THE   PLAY   OF   "KING 

HENRY  THE  FIFTH" 362 

GUIDARELLO   GUIDARELLI 363 

A   WAR   SONG  OF  TYROL 367 

THE  "TEXAS"        368 

THE  SEA-GULL 369 

EGYPT 371 

GIBRALTAR  AT  DAWN 372 

STORM-WAVES  AND  FOG  ON  DORR'S  POINT,  BAR  HARBOR  .  373 

THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  WASHINGTON 374 

FLORENCE:    APRIL   FIRST 376 

WHICH? 376 

JEKYL  ISLAND:     EBB-TIDE 377 

INDIAN   SUMMER 377 

FRIENDSHIP 379 

LOVE        379 

INNOGEN 380 

PRAYER 381 

THE  ANGELS  OF   PRAYER 381 

A  CHILD'S  PRAYER 381 

LINES   GIVEN   TO   M.   AT   CHRISTMAS 382 

THE  PURE  OF  HEART:     GENNESARET        383 

THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  HILLS 388 

AN   ODE  OF  BATTLES,  GETTYSBURG  AND  SANTIAGO     .     .  394 


CONTENTS 
POEMS  OF  OCCASION 

PAGE 

A  DOCTOR'S  CENTURY:  READ  AT  THE  CENTENNIAL  DIN 
NER  OF  THE  COLLEGE  OF  PHYSICIANS  OF  PHILADELPHIA, 
1887 401 

MINERVA  MEDICA:  VERSES  READ  AT  THE  DINNER  COM 
MEMORATIVE  OF  THE  FIFTIETH  YEAR  OF  THE  DOCTORATE 

OF  D.  HAYES  AGNEW,  M.D.,  APRIL  6,   1888     .     .     .403 
VERSES  :     READ    ON    THE    PRESENTATION    BY     S.    WEIR 
MITCHELL  TO  THE  PHILADELPHIA  COLLEGE  OF   PHYSI 
CIANS  OF  SARAH  W.  WHITMAN'S  PORTRAIT  OF  OLIVER 

WENDELL  HOLMES,  M.D 408 

A  DECANTER  OF  MADEIRA,  AGED  86 :  TO  GEORGE  BANCROFT, 

AGED   86 411 

THE  BIRTH  AND  DEATH  OF  PAIN  :  A  POEM  READ  OCTO 
BER  l6,  1896,  AT  THE  COMMEMORATION  OF  THE  FIFTIETH 
ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  FIRST  PUBLIC  DEMONSTRATION  OF 
SURGICAL  ANESTHESIA  IN  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  GEN 
ERAL  HOSPITAL,  BOSTON 413 

A  PRAYER,  AFTER  SANTIAGO 417 

BOOKS  AND  THE  MAN  I    WlLLIAM  OSLER.    READ  AT  THE 

CHARAKA  CLUB,  MARCH  4,  1905 418 

ON  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAGS  BY  CON 
GRESS  422 

VERSES   IN    HONOR   OF   WILLIAM    H.    WELCH,   READ   AT 

JOHNS   HOPKINS,   APRIL  2,   1910 424 

To  ABRAHAM  JACOBI,  M.D.,  ON  His  SEVENTIETH  BIRTH-  4 

DAY ^  427 

IN   MEMORY  OF  WILLIAM   HENRY   DRUM  MONO     .     .     .  429 

ODE  ON  A  LYCIAN  TOMB 435 

VESPERAL .     .     .  439 

NOTES .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  443 


DRAMATIC    POEMS 


FRANCIS    DRAKE 

A    TRAGEDY    OF   THE    SEA 
TIME,    1578 

At  sea,  off  the  coast  of  Patagonia,  on  board  the 
Pelican,  the  Elizabeth,  and  the  Plymouth. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 

FRANCIS  DRAKE. 
THOMAS   DOUGHTY,   his   friend. 
FRANCIS  FLETCHER,  Chaplain. 
JOHN  WINTER,         1 
LEONARD  VICAR Y,     L  Captains. 
WILLIAM  CHESTER,] 
GENTLEMEN-VENTURERS. 
SEAMEN. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE 

Deck  of  the  Elisabeth.    Fleet  in  the  offing. 

JOHN  WINTER.     THOMAS  DOUGHTY. 

DOUGHTY    (coming   aboard).     Good-morrow,   Winter. 

Still  the  winds  are  foul. 
I  would  they  blew  from  merry  England  shores. 

WINTER.     I  would  they  had  not  blown  you  to  my  ship. 
None  are  more  welcome  elsewhere.     Strict  commands 
Forbid  this  visiting  from  ship  to  ship. 

DOUGHTY.    These  orders  are  most  wise,  —  I  doubt  not 

that; 

Yet  must  I  learn  that  any  here  afloat 
Is  master  of  the  gentlemen  who  venture 
Their  ducats  and  their  lives.     Let  him  make  laws 
To  rule  rough  sailors;  they  are  not  for  us. 

WINTER.     Yet  one  must  be  the  master.     Ill  it  were 
If,  drifting  masterless,  this  little  realm 
Of  tossing  ships  obeyed  not  one  sure  helm. 
I  shall  but  serve  you  if  I  bid  you  go. 

DOUGHTY.     The  Pelican  is  twice  a  league  away. 
T  is  time  the  several  captains  of  the  fleet 
Should  learn  how  little  mind  the  seamen  have, 


4  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

Ay,  and  the  gentlemen,  to  hold  our  course. 
Now,  were  we  all  of  us  of  one  firm  mind, 
This  cheating  voyage  should  end,  and  that  full  soon. 
This  in  your  ear.     Did  I  dare  speak  of  Burleigh  — 

[Winter  recoils. 

WINTER.    Have  you  a  mind  to  lose  us  both  our  heads? 
I  would  not  ill  report  you,  but  your  words 
Sail  near  to  treason,  both  to  Queen  and  Friend. 

DOUGHTY.    I  pray  you  but  this  once  be  patient  with  me. 
My  actions  shall  not  lack  support  in  England. 
If  I  might  dare  say  all,  you  best  of  any 
Would  know  the  admiral  has  no  better  friend. 
The  ships  decay;  the  sailors  mutiny; 
Before  us  lies  a  waste  of  unknown  seas; 
Methinks  authority  doth  beget  in  men 
A  certain  madness.     Think  you  if  we  chance 
To  ruin  peaceful  towns  and  scuttle  ships, 
And  rouse  these  Spanish  hornets  on  their  coasts, 
Think  you  the  dearest  counsellor  of  the  Queen  — 
I  may  not  name  him  —  will  be  better  pleased 
With  him  that  hurts  or  him  that  helps  this  voyage? 

WINTER.     I  think  your  enterprise  more  perilous 
Than  half  a  hundred  voyages,  good  friend  — 
I  pray  you  risk  not  losing  of  the  name, 
For  you  are  greatly  changed  from  him  I  knew 
This  some  time  past  of  gentle  disposition; 
In  danger  tranquil;  gay,  and  yet  discreet; 
Learned  in  the  law,  a  scholar  and  a  soldier. 

DOUGHTY.    An  old-time  nursery  trick:  comfits  before, 
And  after  comes  the  dose;  then  sweets  again. 

WINTER.     Be  not  so  hasty;  hear  me  to  the  end, 
And  be  my  careful  friendship  early  pardoned. 
I  have  heard  you  say  of  late  you  lack  advancement. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  5 

There  is  advancement  no  man  need  to  lack 

Who  makes  his  Duty  like  a  mother's  knees, 

Where  all  his  prayers  are  said.     This  man  you  were. 

What  other  man  is  this  I  hardly  know: 

One  that  of  all  his  natural  endowments 

Makes  but  base  use  to  stir  the  meaner  sort, 

To  darken  counsel  with  a  mist  of  words, 

To  scatter  falsehood,  and  to  sow  distrust; 

And  all  as  lightly  as  a  housewife  flings 

The  morning  grain  amidst  her  cackling  crew. 

DOUGHTY.     You  have  done  well  to  ask  my  pardon  first. 

WINTER.     Nay.     I    do   hold   the    bond   of    friendship 

strong ; 

And  he  who  wills  to  keep  his  friends  must  know 
To  stomach  that  they  lack.     I  would  indeed 
You  had  not  spoken  as  you  have  to-day. 

DOUGHTY.     What  matters  it?     My  words  are  safe  with 
you. 

WINTER.     Safe  as  my  countenance  will  let  them  be; 
Safe  till  the  admiral  asks,  and,  like  a  boy, 
I  stand  a-twiddling  of  uneasy  thumbs, 
On  this  foot,  now,  or  that,  red  in  the  face. 
By  Heaven !  what  fetched  you  on  this  hated  voyage? 

DOUGHTY.     A  trick.     A  fetch  indeed  ! 

WINTER.  Nay,  that 's  not  so. 

Trick  or  no  trick,  this  is  not  English  earth, 
Nor  Drake  the  man  who  on  the  Devon  greens 
Sat  half  the  night  a-talking  poesy. 
I  have  seen  many  men  in  angry  moods, 
But  this  man's  wrath  is  as  the  wrath  of  God, 
Instant  and  terrible.     Pray  you,  be  warned, 
And  if  your  soul  be  capable  of  fear  — 

DOUGHTY.     Fear! 


6  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

WINTER.  Ay,  a  healthful  virtue  in  its  place. 

Had  I  been  but  the  half  as  rash  as  you, 
My  very  sword  would  tremble  in  its  sheath. 

DOUGHTY.     And  yet  I  have  no  nearer  friend  than  he. 

WINTER.     You  judge  men  by  their  love,  as  maidens  do. 

DOUGHTY.     And  not  an  ill  way,  either,  as  earth  goes. 
The  admiral  in  his  less  distracted  times 
Hath  some  rare  flavor  of  the  woman  in  him. 

WINTER.     Oh,  that 's  the  half  of  him :  no  lady  wronged, 
No  pillaged  church,  no  hurt  of  unarmed  man, 
Will  stain  his  record  at  the  great  account. 
Have  then  a  care.     The  gentle,  just,  and  brave 
Are  ill  to  anger. 

DOUGHTY.  What  I  say  to  you 

I  not  less  readily  shall  say  to  him, 
Trusting  the  friendly  equity  of  his  love. 

WINTER.     A  certain  devil  lurks  in  every  angel, 
Else  had  there  never  been  a  strife  in  heaven. 
Now  on  my  soul  I  wonder  at  the  man. 
Thrice  has  he  warned  you  as  a  brother  might, 
And  once  removed  you  from  a  high  command. 
'T  is  very  strange  to  me  how  men  may  differ. 
No  doubts  have  I ;  along  these  savage  coasts 
Magellan  sailed.     Are  we  not  English  born? 

DOUGHTY.     I  neither  have  forgotten  nor  forget. 
Thanks  for  your  patience.     There  is  more  to  say 
That  might  be  said. 

WINTER.  I  would  it  had  been  less. 

I  think  it  well  no  other  hears  your  words. 

DOUGHTY.     Oh,  fear  not  I  shall  rashly  squander  speech. 

WINTER.     Spend  not  your  thoughts  at  all.     Be  miserly. 
These  wooden  walls  have  echoes ;  to  and  fro 
Some  wild  word  wanders,  till,  on  each  return, 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  7 

We  less  and  less  our  own  mind's  children  know. 
All  gold  they  say  is  of  the  devil's  mint; 
But  words  are  very  devils  of  themselves. 
I  do  commend  you  to  a  fast  of  speech. 

DOUGHTY.  It  might  be  wise — but  you'll  not  talk  of  this. 

WINTER.     Nay,  that  I  will  not.     It  is  you  will  speak. 
A  restless  tongue  is  ever  no  man's  friend. 
Come,  let  us  shift  the  talk.     'T  is  perilous. 

[Winter,  as  he  speaks,  walks  to  the  rail. 
How  huge  and  bloody  red  the  moon  to-night ! 
This  utter  quiet  of  the  brooding  sea 
I  like  not  over  well ;  nor  yon  red  moon. 
So,  there  's  a  breeze  again,  and  now  't  is  still. 
We  shall  have  storms  to-morrow. 

DOUGHTY.  Reason  good, 

Before  our  ships  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 
That  I  should  speak  what  others  dare  not  speak. 

WINTER.     Nor  I  dare  hear.     My  mother  used  to  say 
That  silence  was  a  very  Christian  virtue. 
When  I  talk  folly,  be  the  Moon  my  friend; 
There  are  no  eavesdroppers  among  the  stars. 

DOUGHTY.     Her  sex,  they  say,  are  leaky  counsellors; 
And,  too,  she  shares  your  secrets  with  a  man, 
Red  i'  the  visage  now.    Here  's  three  to  keep 
Your  pleasant  indiscretions. 

WINTER.  Happy  Moon! 

That  ere  a  day  is  dead  shall  England  see. 
Ah,  gentle  dame,  shine  on  our  island  homes; 
Kiss  for  my  sake  a  face  as  fair  as  thine; 
Go,  tell  our  love  to  every  maiden  flower 
That  droops  tear-laden  in  our  Devon  woods. 

DOUGHTY.     I  dreamed  last  night  that  never  more  again 
Should  I  see  England. 


8  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

WINTER.  That 's  as  God  may  will. 

I  dare  not  think  on  England.     Why  should  you? 
What  ails  you  now  that  you  should  look  behind 
When  honor  cries  come  on  ? 

DOUGHTY.  To  be  a  child ! 

Is  that  your  largest  wisdom? 

WINTER.  Yes,  well  said ! 

Child,  woman,  man  —  the  nobler  life  hath  need 
That  man  be  all  of  these. 

DOUGHTY  (is  silent  a  moment}.     I  would  that  I 
Were  always  near  you,  Winter.     Drake  has  power 
To  tempt  resistance  as  no  other  can. 
With  you,  dear  friend,  my  soul  abides  in  peace. 

WINTER.     Seek   you   such    peace   as   comes   to   those 

alone 
Who  have  for  friend  the  duty  of  the  hour. 

DOUGHTY.     Enough  of  preaching. 

WINTER.  Well,  so  be  it  then; 

But  guard  that  restless  tongue.     When  night  is  come, 
And  all  these  mighty  spaces  overhead 
And  all  this  vast  of  sea  lie  motionless, 
God  seems  so  near  to  me,  ill  deeds  so  far, 
That  all  my  soul  in  gentled  wonder  rests. 

[They  are  silent  a  time. 

DOUGHTY.     Mark  how  the  southward  splendor  of  the 

cross 

Shines  peace  upon  us.     When  the  nights  are  calm, 
I  joy  to  climb  the  topmast's  utmost  peak, 
And,  hanging  breathless  in  the  unpeopled  void, 
Note  how  the  still  deep  answers  star  for  star. 

WINTER.   See,  the  wind  freshens.   Get  you  to  your  ship. 
Come  not  again.     This  seeming  quiet  sea 
Is  not  more  dangerous  than  a  man  we  know. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  9 

DOUGHTY.     'T  is  not  the  danger  checks  me ;  yet  be  sure 
I  shall  not  spare  to  think  upon  your  words. 
You  have  my  thanks.     Good-night,  and  merry  dreams. 
See  that  you  keep  my  counsel. 

WINTER.  Said  I  not, 

'T  was  safe  with  me? 

DOUGHTY  (goes  over  the  rail  to  his  boat).  Good-night, 
and  better  winds. 

WINTER.  Good-night  to  you. 

The  devil  take  the  man. 


Cabin  of  Pelican. 
DRAKE.     VICARY.     WINTER. 

WINTER.     It  sorts  not  with  my  honor  that  I  speak. 

DRAKE.     Enough  to  know  John  Winter  will  not  speak ; 
A  cruel  verdict  is  the  just  man's  silence. 
I  have  been  patient,  but  the  end  has  come. 
What  breeds  these  discontents?     I  know  the  man. 
Were  he  twin  brother  of  my  mother's  womb 
He  should  not  live  to  mar  my  Prince's  venture. 
(To  Vicary.}     Are  you  struck  silent,  like  my  good  John 

Winter? 
What  substance  is  there  in  this  mutinous  talk? 

VICARY.     Too  little  substance,  not  enough  to  eat; 
A  prating  parson,  and  some  empty  bellies. 
A  very  mutinous  thing  's  an  empty  paunch. 

DRAKE.    Now  here  's  a  man  has  never  a  plain  answer. 
Out  with  it  in  good  English. 

VICARY.  As  you  will, 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  my  way  of  speech; 


10  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

I  cannot  help  it.  I  was  born  a-grinning, 
Or  so  my  mother  said.  If  death  's  a  jest, 
I  doubt  not  I  shall  never  die  in  earnest. 

DRAKE.     Now  on  my  soul  this  passes  all  endurance ; 
Grin,  if  it  please  you,  but  at  least  speak  out. 

VICARY.     I  never  had  as  little  mind  to  speak. 

DRAKE.     I  have  heard  you  jesting  with  a  Spanish  Don 
When  sore  beset  and  well-nigh  spent  with  wounds. 
I  think  some  counsel  lies  behind  your  mirth. 

VICARY.    Were  I  the  admiral  I  would  preach  a  sermon. 

DRAKE.     A  sermon ! 

VICARY.  Ay !  and  that  a  yardarm  long, 

And  to  conclude,  a  parson  and  a  rope. 
Also  good  rum  's  a  very  Christian  diet, 
And  vastly  does  console  a  shrunken  belly. 
DRAKE  ( smiling ) .    Well,  my  gay  j  ester,  is  there  more  to  say  ? 

VICARY.     I  sometimes  think  we  carry  on  our  ships 
Too  large  a  freight  of  time. 

DRAKE.  Talk  plain  again. 

It  takes  three  questions  to  beget  an  answer. 

VICARY.     Now,  as  the  world  runs,  that's  unnatural 
many. 

DRAKE.     I  think  you  will  not  speak. 

VICARY.  No,  I  'm  run  dry. 

I  am  as  barren  as  a  widowed  hen. 

DRAKE   (laughing).     Out  with  you.     Go! 

VICARY  (aside).  And  none  more  glad  to  go. 

[Exit  Vicary. 

DRAKE.     One  that  must  needs  be  taken  in  his  humor. 

WINTER.     'T  is   a   strange  disposition  that  has  mirth 
For  what  breeds  tears  in  others. 

DRAKE.  No,  not  strange. 

But  I  've  no  jesting  in  my  heart  to-day. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  1 1 

The  straits  lie  yonder,  dark  and  perilous; 
The  Spaniards'  villainies  sit  heavy  here. 

[Strikes  his  breast. 

Their  racks  are  red  with  honest  English  blood; 
The  dead  call,  "  Come."     Ah,  Winter,  by  my  soul, 
When  Panama  is  ours,  when  their  galleons  lie 
Distressful  wrecks,  and  England's  banner  flies 
Unquestioned  on  the  far  Pacific  sea, 
Then  — 

WINTER.     Is  it  so?    Runs  your  commission  thus? 

DRAKE.     Once  past  the  straits,  and  all  shall  know  my 

errand. 

Here  is  the  warrant  of  Her  Majesty, 
And  here  the  sword  she  bade  me  call  her  own. 

WINTER.     Did  Doughty  know  of  this? 

DRAKE.  Ay,  from  the  first. 

WINTER.     A  double  treason. 

DRAKE.  Counsel  me,  John  Winter. 

The  sailors  murmur,  and  the  gentlemen 
Sow  quarrels  and  dissension  through  the  fleet. 
My  dearest  friend  betrays  my  dearest  trust. 
What  means  this  gay  boy's  chatter  about  time? 

WINTER.     A  riddle  easily  read,  if  you  but  think 
What  use  the  devil  has  for  idle  hours. 

DRAKE.     I  have  long  meant  to  make  an  end  of  that. 
Go  tell  these  la;;y  gentles,  Francis  Drake 
Bids  them  to  haul  and  pull  as  sailors  do; 
Ay,  let  them  reef  and  lay  out  on  the  yards. 
I  '11  bid  'gainst  Satan  for  their  idleness. 
Belike  they  may  not  care  to  go  aloft; 
Then,  on  my  word,  I  've  bilboes  down  alow. 

WINTER.     Thou  wouldst  not  set  a  gentle  i'  the  stocks? 

DRAKE.     Gentle  or  parson,  let  them  try  me  not. 


12  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

'T  is  said  a  gibbet  stands  on  yonder  shore: 
There  brave  Magellan  hanged  a  mutinous  Don. 
Let  them  look  to  it.     See  I  be  obeyed. 
None  shall  be  favored.     Fetch  me  now  aboard 
This  traitor  Doughty,  and  no  words  with  him. 

WINTER.     Ay,  ay,  sir. 

DRAKE.  Go.     Let  there  be  no  delay. 

[Winter  in  his  boat  beside  the  Plymouth. 

DOUGHTY  (descending}.    What  means  this  summons? 

WINTER.  Hush  !     I  may  not  speak. 

Give  way  there,  men.     (To  Doughty.}     Have  you  your 

tablets  with  you? 

{Takes  them  and  writes: 

"  Take  care.     Be  warned.     The  devil  is  broke  loose." 
DOUGHTY.     Why  am  I  bidden? 

WINTER.  Way  —  give  way  there,  men  ! 

DOUGHTY.     Will  you  not  answer  me? 
WINTER.  Not  I,  indeed. 

Way  there,  enough  !     Ho,  there,  aboard  ! 

[Doughty  goes  aboard  the  Pelican. 
DOUGHTY.  Good-day. 

Deck  of  Pelican. 
DOUGHTY.     FLETCHER. 

FLETCHER.     I  think  there  is  some  mischief  in  the  air. 
'T  is  said  the  admiral  has  sent  for  you. 

DOUGHTY.     I  'm  haled  aboard  with  no  more  courtesy 
Than  any  meanest  ruffian  of  the  crew. 
Were  I  in  England  he  should  answer  me. 

FLETCHER.     This  is  not  England. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  13 

DOUGHTY.  Oh,  by  heaven  !  no  ! 

(Aside.}     Time  must  be  won.     I 've  been  a  loitering  fool. 
(Aloud.}     I  would  that  I  could  clear  my  mind  to  you. 

FLETCHER.     Why  not  to  me?     What  other  is  so  fit? 
Is  not  confession  like  an  act  of  nature? 

DOUGHTY.     I  am  like  a  wine  thick  with  confusing  lees. 
To-day  they  settle,  and  to-morrow  morn 
Another  shakes  me,  and  I  'm  thick  again. 

[Fletcher  watches  him.    Both  are  silent  for  a  moment. 
You  are  both  man  and  priest. 

FLETCHER.  Add  friend  to  both. 

DOUGHTY.     We    said,    most    reverend    sir,    both    man 

and  priest. 

Had  you  been  more  of  man,  yet  all  of  priest, 
Confession  had  been  easier. 

FLETCHER.  More  of  man ! 

Grant  you  I  lack  the  courage  of  the  sea, 
Think  you  it  takes  none  to  be  now  your  friend? 
I  have  the  will,  ay,   and  the  resolution, 
To  help  you  when  I  think  you  most  need  help. 
I  guess  the  half  your  lips  delay  to  tell. 

DOUGHTY  (looking  about  him}.  Enough.  Time  passes, 

and  you  should  know  all. 

My  Lord  of  Burleigh  much  mislikes  this  voyage. 
Who  helps  to  ruin  it  will  no  loser  be. 
Had  I  but  known  this  ere  my  florins  went 
To  help  a  foolish  venture ! 

FLETCHER.  But  the  Queen  — 

DOUGHTY.    Hath  ever  had  two  minds,  as  is  her  way. 
(Points  north.}     Now  there  advancement  lies.     (Points 
south.}     And  that  way  death. 

FLETCHER.    Art  in  the  service  of  my  Lord  of  Burleigh? 
Not  more  than  thou  am  I  this  admiral's  man. 


14  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

DOUGHTY.  And  I  am  no  man's  man;  I  am  the  Queen's. 
I  shall  best  serve  my  God  in  serving  her. 
Shall  it  be  Prince  or  friend?     I  may  not  both. 

FLETCHER.     Is  he  thy  friend? 

DOUGHTY.  Of  late  I  doubt  it  much. 

Now  hath  he  closer  counsellors  than  I. 

FLETCHER.   He  loves  thee  not.   This  ill-advised  voyage 
Goes  to  disaster  in  these  unknown  seas 
Where  some  foul  devil  led  the  sons  of  Rome. 
'T  is  said  that  demons  lit  them  down  the  coast. 
This  nine  and  fifty  years  no  Christian  sail 
Has  gone  this  deathful  way.     The  admiral 
Knows  not  the  sullen  temper  of  the  fleet. 
(Looks  at  DOUGHTY  steadily}.    There  should  be  one  —  a 

friend  —  to  bid  him  turn 
And  set  our  prows  toward  England.     Think  on  that. 

DOUGHTY.     But  who  shall  bell  the  cat?     What  mouse 
among  us? 

FLETCHER.    If  but  we  English  mice  were  of  one  mind! 

DOUGHTY.     Soon  shall  we  be  so.    You  have  unawares 
Made  firm  my  purpose.     'T  is  not  in  your  kind 
To  court  such  peril  as  our  talk  may  bring. 
The  more  for  this  have  you  my  thanks.     Enough. 
The  counsel  given  me  — 

FLETCHER  (alarmed}.     I  gave  you  none. 

DOUGHTY.     Oh,  rest  you  easy.     It  is  safe  with  me. 
As  you  are  priest,  so  I  am  gentleman ; 
Now  in  the  end  it  comes  to  much  the  same. 

Enter  CHESTER. 

CHESTER  (to  DOUGHTY).    The  admiral  would  see  you 
instantly.  [Exit. 


FRANCIS   DRAKE  *5 

Cabin  of  Pelican. 

DRAKE.     I  would  this  man  had  been  less  dear  to  me; 
Another  I  had  long  since  crushed.     The  rat 
Which  gnaws  the  planks  between  our  lives  and  death 
I  had  as  lightly  dealt  with.     For  love's  sake 
And  all  the  honest  past  that  has  been  ours 
Once  shall  I  speak.     Once  more:  [A  knock, 

Ho  there  !    Come  in. 


Enter  CHESTER  and  DOUGHTY. 

CHESTER.     The   land   lies   low   to   westward,    and   the 

wind 
Blows  fair  and  steady.  [DRAKE  looks  at  the  chart. 

DRAKE.  Ay,  St.  Julian's  isle. 

\Exit  CHESTER. 
(To  DOUGHTY).     Pray  you  be  seated. 

DOUGHTY.  I  am  ordered  hither. 

'T  were  fit  I  stand. 

DRAKE.  Yes,  I  am  admiral; 

But  there  are  moments  in  the  lives  of  all 
When  the  stern  conscience  of  a  too  great  office 
Appals  the  kindlier  heart  that  fain  would  be 
Where  indecisions  breed  less  consequence. 
I  said,  be  seated.  [DOUGHTY  obeys. 

Are  you  not  my  friend? 
Forget  these  rolling  seas,  the  time,  the  place, 
This  mighty  errand  which  my  Prince  has  sped. 
Think  me  to-day  but  simple  Francis  Drake, 
And  be  yourself  the  brother  of  my  heart. 

DOUGHTY.     There  spoke  the  old  Frank  Drake  I  seemed 
to  lose. 


l6  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

DRAKE.     Let  us  try  back.    We  are  like  ill-broken  dogs. 
Our  lives  have  lost  the  scent. 

DOUGHTY.  Nay,  think  not  so. 

DRAKE.     Ah,  once  I  had  a  friend,  a  scholar  wise, 
A  soldier,  and  a  poet;  dowered,  I  think, 
With  all  the  gentle  gifts  that  win  men's  hearts. 
Of  late  he  seems  another  than  himself; 
Of  late  he  is  most  changed,  and  him  I  knew 
Is  here  no  more.     Ah,  but  I  too  am  double, 
And  one  of  me  is  still  your  nearest  friend, 
And  one,  ah,  one  is  admiral  of  the  fleet. 
Let  him  that  loves  you  whisper  to  your  soul 
The  thing  he  would  not  say.     You  understand. 
Ah,  now  you  smile.     A  pretty  turn  of  phrase 
Did  ever  capture  you.     'T  was  always  thus. 
We  have  seen  death  so  often,  eye  to  eye, 
That  fear  of  death  were  idle  argument; 
Yet  in  such  words  of  yours  as  men  report 
A  deathful  sentence  lurks.     Oh,  cast  away 
These  mad  temptations,  won  I  know  not  whence. 
Last  night  I  fell  to  thinking,  ere  I  slept, 
Of  those  proud  histories  of  older  days 
You  loved  to  tell  amid  the  tents  in  Ireland. 
Trust  me,  no  one  of  these  that  shall  not  fade 
Before  the  wonder  of  this  English  tale 
Of  what  El  Draco  and  his  captains  did. 
And  when,  at  twilight,  by  our  Devon  hearths 
Some  old  man  tells  the  story,  shall  he  pause, 
And  say,  But  one  there  was,  of  England  born, 
That  sowed  the  way  with  perils  not  of  God, 
Breeding  dissension,  casting  on  his  name 
Dishonor  — 

DOUGHTY    (leaping  up}.     Now,  by  heaven!   no  man 
shall  say  — 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  I? 

DRAKE  (smiling  and  quiet,  puts  a  hand  on  each  shoulder 
of  DOUGHTY).     Hush!  you  will  waken  up  that 
other  man. 

Read  not  my  meaning  wrong.     I  am  sore  beset. 
Before  me  lie  dark  days.     The  timid  shrink; 
The  gentlemen,  who  should  have  been  my  stay, 
Fall  from  me  useless.     Yet,  come  what  come  may, 
For  England's  glory  and  my  lady's  grace, 
I  go  my  way.     Well  did  he  speak  who  said, 
"  Heaven  is  as  near  by  water  as  by  land." 
And  therefore,  whether  it  be  death  or  fame 
That  waits  in  yonder  seas,  I  go  my  way. 
Yet,  if  I  lose  you  on  this  venturous  road, 
Half  the  proud  joy  of  victory  were  gone. 
I  have  been  long;  you,  patient.     Rest  we  here. 

DOUGHTY.     Yes,  I  am  more  than  one  man ;  more 's 

the  pity. 
If  I  have  sinned,  forgive  me,  and  good-night. 

DRAKE.    Thou  shalt  stay  with  me  on  the  Pelican. 

DOUGHTY  (aside}.   So,  so.   A  child  in  ward!  (Aloud.) 
Again,  good-night.  [Exit. 

[Enter  VICARY. 

VICARY.   The  water  shoals.   A  land  lies  west  by  south. 
There  seems  good  anchorage  in  the  island's  lee. 

DRAKE.    We  shall  find  water  here,  good  fruit  and  fish. 
Send  in  a  boat  for  soundings.     Signal  all 
To  anchor  where  seems  best;  and  Vicary, 
Set  thy  gay  humor  to  some  thoughtful  care 
Of  him  that  left  just  now.     I  hold  him  dear. 

VICARY.     I  would  to  heaven  he  were  safe  in  England. 

DRAKE.     And  I,  and  I.    He  is  more  like  a  child 
Than  any  man  my  life's  experience  knows. 
Yet  he  is  dangerous  to  himself  and  us; 


l8  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

Too  fond  of  speech;  too  cunning  with  the  tongue; 
That  tempts  to  mischief  like  a  sharpened  blade. 

VICARY.     Ah,  words  !  words  !  words  !     Ye  children  of 

the  fiend, 

On  all  your  generated  repetitions 
Is  visited  your  parents'  wickedness. 
He  keeps  boon  company  with  each  man's  humor, 
Is  gay  with  me,  is  chivalrous  with  you, 
At  Winter's  side  a  grave  philosopher. 
I  shall  set  merry  sentinels  for  his  guards, 
And  there  my  wisdom  ends. 

DRAKE.  My  Thanks.     No  more. 

\Exit  VICARY. 


Deck  of  Pelican.    Ships  at  anchor  near  the  north  end  of 
the  island  of  St.  Julian. 

DOUGHTY.    WINTER.     SEAMEN. 

WINTER.     These  are  my  orders. 

DOUGHTY.  I  may  not  to  shore; 

And  for  the  reason  ?     Drake  shall  give  it  me. 

[Turns  to  the  men. 
I  hear  there  is  no  water  on  these  shores. 

IST  SAILOR.  That  in  the  casks  is  but  mere  mud  of 
vileness;  rot  in  the  mouth,  and  stenches  in  the  nose. 

2D  SAILOR.  And  for  the  biscuits,  they  are  moldy 
green,  and  inhabited  like  an  owl's  nest  with  all  manner 
of  live  things. 

30  SAILOR.  It  will  be  worse  in  the  lower  seas.  There 
the  men  are  eleven  cubits  tall. 

20  SAILOR.     Nay,  feet,  and  that 's  enough. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  19 

4TH  SAILOR.  Where  scurvy  Dons  have  gone,  good 
English  may. 

DOUGHTY.     We  gentles  are  no  better  off  than  you. 
Here  is  an  order,  we  shall  pull  and  haul 
And  lay  aloft.     What!     Lack  ye  meat  to-day? 
Here  are  grubs  to  spare.    These  caverned  biscuits  hold 
Small  beeves  in  plenty.     Here  's  more  life,  I  think, 
Than  we  are  like  to  find  on  yonder  coast. 

IST  SAILOR.  A  Portugee  did  tell  me  once  there  was 
no  day  in  the  straits  where  we  must  sail,  and  all  the  sea 
be  full  of  venomed  snakes. 

DOUGHTY.  Nay.  That 's  a  foolish  fable.  True  it  is 
that  in  the  straits  are  mighty  isles  of  ice,  with  sail  and 
mast.  They  beat  about,  men  say,  like  luggers  on  a  wind, 
and  never  man  to  handle  rope  or  sail. 

FLETCHER.  The  boats  are  come  again,  and  no  water, 
none  !  Alas,  this  miserable  voyage  ! 


Enter  VICARY  from  boat. 

VICARY.     Not  so,  good  chaplain.     Underneath  a  cliff 
I  found  a  spring  as  sweet  as  England's  best. 
Good  store  of  shellfish,  too,  and  these  strange  fruits. 
(To  DOUGHTY).    You  're  but  an  old  wife  at  these  fireside 
tales.    Lord,  lads !  there  's  wonders  yonder.    It  is  twice 
as  good  as  a  fair  in  May.  There  's  only  a  merry-go-round 
that 's   called   a   swirlpool.     Round  you   go,    a   hundred 
years,  ship  and  all,  not  a  farthing  to  pay,  and  then  home 
to  bed,  with  addled  pates,  as  good  as  drunk,  and  no  man 
the  poorer.  [The  men  laugh. 

IST  SAILOR  (aside).     He  do  lie  to  beat  a  rusty  wea 
ther-cock. 


20  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

20  SAILOR.  But  men  do  say  there 's  hell-traps  set 
along  the  rocks,  and  all  the  waters  boil  like  witch's  pots. 

VICARY  (laughs).  The  tale  is  gone  awry.  When  last 
I  sailed  this  way,  no  fire  would  burn,  and  all  the  little 
fiends  were  harvesting  of  mighty  icicles  to  keep  the  daddy 
devils  from  frosted  toes. 

IST  SAILOR  (aside).  He  be  a  lively  liar.  He  be  a  very 
flea  among  liars.  [All  laugh. 

VICARY.    The  seas  be  rum,  and  all  the  whales  mad 

drunk.  [Laughter. 

I  thought  my  laughter  trap  was  baited  well. 

4TH  SAILOR  (aside).  He  don't  starve  his  lies.  A  very 
pretty  liar.  His  lies  be  fat  as  ever  a  Christmas  hog. 

VICARY.    Tom  Doughty,  I  '11  match  lies  with  you,  my 

lad, 
The  longest  day  of  June.     A  song,  a  song ! 

SAILORS.    A  song,  a  song !     The  captain  for  a  song ! 

VICARY.    Here  's  for  a  song.     The  admiral  bids  say 
Your  rum  is  doubled  for  a  week  to  come. 
So,  here  we  go.     Be  hearty  with  the  burden. 

SONG. 

Queen  Bess  has  three  bad  boys, 

Such  naughty  boys! 
They  sailed  away  to  Cadiz  Bay 
To  make  a  mighty  noise. 
Heave  her  round ! 
Heave  her  round! 
Such  bad  boys ! 
Yo  ho! 

There  's  wicked  Master  Drake, 
As  likes  to  play  with  guns; 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  21 

He  sailed  away  to  Cadiz  Bay 
To  wake  the  sleepy  Dons. 

Heave  her  round !  etc. 

These  be  three  captains  small, 
None  taller  than  a  splinter. 
One  does  admire  to  play  with  fire, 
That 's  little  Jacky  Winter. 
Heave  her  round!  etc. 

There  's  one  does  love  to  fight, 
It  might  be  Billy  Chester. 
And  they  're  away  to  Cadiz  Bay 
Before  a  stiff  sou'-wester. 

Heave  her  round !  etc. 

Don  Spaniard  sings,  Avast! 
What 's  doing  with  them  grapples  ? 
We  're  just  Queen  Bess's  naughty  boys, 
We  're  only  stealing  apples. 
Heave  her  round !  etc. 

They  filled  their  little  stomachs, 
They  had  a  pretty  frolic. 
The  boys  as  ate  the  apples  up 
Was  n't  them  as  had  the  colic. 
Heave  her  round !  etc. 

Small  Frank  he  shot  his  gun, 
And  Willy  played  with  fire. 
To  see  those  naughty  boys  again 
No  Spaniard  do  desire. 

Heave  her  round;  etc. 


22  FRANCIS   DRAKE 

VICARY.     Well  tuned,  my  lads.     Now  who  of  you's 
for  shore? 

DOUGHTY  (aside  to  a  mate).    There'll  be  no  songs 
down  yonder. 

WINTER  (leaning  over  him}.     What,  again? 
More  mischief,  ever  more?     Dark  is  the  sea 
Where  you  will  sail.     What  fiend  possesses  you? 
This  in  your  ear.     The  priest  is  no  man's  friend. 
If  I  do  know  the  malady  of  baseness, 
There  's  one  that  needs  a  doctor. 

DOUGHTY.  You  are  wrong. 

I  have  no  better  friend,  none  more  assured. 

WINTER.     Indeed,  I  think  you  are  too  rich  in  friends. 
Better  you  had  a  hundred  eager  foes 
Than  this  man's  friendly  company.     One  step  more, 
One  slight  excess  of  speech,  some  word  retold  — 
And  you  are  lost  to  life. 

DOUGHTY.  He  dare  not  do  it ! 

WINTER.    Dare  not !    I  think  it  oft  doth  chance  a  man 
Knows  not  his  nearest  friend  as  others  do. 
As  for  your  priest  —  I  greatly  fear  a  coward. 
The  day  will  come  when  honest  Francis  Drake 
Will  shake  all  secrets  from  him  as  a  dog 
Shakes  out  a  rat's  mean  life.     Beware  the  day  1 
Well  do  I  know  the  admiral's  silent  mood; 
Then  should  men  fear  him,  and  none  more  than  you, 
Because  he  dreads  the  counsel  of  his  heart. 

[Exeunt  both. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  23 

Deck  of  the  Pelican.  Evening,  a  week  later.  The  fleet 
at  anchor  near  the  south  end  of  the  island  of  St. 
Julian.  Sailors  at  the  capstan. 


WINTER.     Now,  then,  to  warp  her  in.     Round  with 

the  capstan. 
Sailors  and  gentlemen,  bear  all  a  hand ! 

DOUGHTY.     Not  I,  by  heaven  !   Not  I !   My  father's  son 
Stains  not  his  sword-hand  with  this  peasant  toil. 

GENTLEMEN.     Nor  I !  nor  I !  nay,  never  one  of  us. 

WINTER.     Do  as  I  bid  you  ! 

DOUGHTY.  Not  a  hand  of  mine 

Shall  to  this  sailor  work. 

WINTER.  That  shall  we  see. 

[Walks  to  the  cabin.  Boatswain  whistles. 

Men  man  the  capstan,  singing: 

Yo  ho  !     Heave  ho  ! 
Oh,  it 's  ingots  and  doubloons, 
Oh,  it 's  diamonds  big  as  moons, 
As  we  sail, 
As  we  sail. 
Yo  ho  !     Heave  ho ! 

Oh,  it 's  rusty,  crusty  Dons, 
And  it 's  rubies  big  as  suns, 
As  we  sail,  etc. 

Oh,  it 's  pieces  by  the  scores, 
And  it 's  jolly  red  moidores, 
As  we  sail,  etc. 


24  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

Oh,  we  '11  singe  King  Philip's  beard, 
And  no  man  here  afeard, 
As  we  sail,  etc. 

Enter  VICARY. 

VICARY.     Well    sung.     Well    hauled,    my    lads.     (To 

DOUGHTY).    A  word  with  you. 
You  will  attend  the  admiral  in  his  cabin. 
(Aside  to  DOUGHTY.)     'Ware  cat,  good  mouse!     The 

claws  are  out  to-night ! 

DOUGHTY.    'T  were  better  soon  than  later.    After  you. 

[Exeunt. 

Cabin  of  Pelican. 

DRAKE.     WINTER. 

Enter  VICARY,  followed  by  DOUGHTY. 

DRAKE.    Pray  you  be  seated.     (To  DOUGHTY.)     Nay, 

not  you,  not  you. 

(To  WINTER.)   Arrest  this  gentleman. 
WINTER.  Your  sword,  an  't  please  you. 

[Receives  it. 

DRAKE.    I  charge  you  here  with  treason  to  the  Queen. 
You  shall  to  trial  with  no  long  delay. 

DOUGHTY.    What  court  is  this  with  which  you  threaten 

me? 
DRAKE.     Now,  by  St.  George,  your  lawyer  tricks  and 

quibbles 

Shall  help  you  little.     I  am  Francis  Drake, 
The  Queen's  plain  sailor,  and  the  master  here. 
DOUGHTY.     Master ! 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  25 

DRAKE.  Ay,  master !    Traitor  to  the  Queen, 

This  long  account  is  closed.     All,  all  is  known, 
Since  when,  at  Plymouth,  on  the  eve  we  sailed, 
My  Lord  of  Burleigh  bought  you;  what  the  price 
The  devil  knows  —  and  you. 

DOUGHTY.  My  Lord  of  Burleigh  ! 

I  pray  you  speak  of  this  with  me  alone. 
What  I  would  say  is  for  a  secret  ear. 

DRAKE.     No,  by  my  sword,  not  I ! 

DOUGHTY.  Then  have  your  way. 

No  law  can  touch  me  here.     This  is  not  England. 

DRAKE.     Where  sails  a  plank  in  English  forests  hewn, 
There  England  is.     This  deck  is  England  now, 
And  I  a  sea-king  of  thus  much  of  England. 
Put  me  this  man  in  irons !     See  to  it ! 
Let  him  have  speech  of  none  except  yourselves. 

[Exeunt  WINTER  and  DOUGHTY. 
(To  VICARY.)     I  have  too  long  delayed. 

VICARY.  That  may  well  be. 

DRAKE.     I  hear  he  hath  great  favor  with  the  crews, 
A  maker  of  more  mischief  than  I  guessed. 

VICARY.     Men  love  him  well. 

DRAKE.  He  hath  too  many  friends. 

This  is  the  very  harlotry  of  friendship. 
Go  now,  and  pray  that  when  command  is  yours 
You  have  no  friends.     See  that  strict  guard  be  kept. 

[Exit  VICARY. 
(Alone.)     I  would  that  God  had  spared  me  this  one  hour. 

Pelican.     DOUGHTY  in  irons  on  the  deck,  seated  upon  a 
coil  of  ropes,  leaning  against  a  mast. 

WINTER  (to  the  guards).     Back  there,  my  men! 
DOUGHTY.  You  are  most  welcome.  Winter. 


26  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

I  am  very  glad  of  company.     My  soul 

Is  sick  to  surfeit  of  its  own  dull  thoughts. 

I  like  not  lonely  hours.     What  land  is  that? 

WINTER.     St.  Julian's  cape. 

DOUGHTY.  Is  that  a  cross  I  see? 

It  seems,  I  think,  the  handiwork  of  man. 

WINTER.     No  cross  is  that;  there  stout  Magellan 

hanged 
Don  Carthagene,  vice-admiral  of  his  fleet. 

DOUGHTY.     Wherefore? 

WINTER.  T  is  said  he  did  dislike  the  voyage, 

And  had  no  mind  to  pass  the  narrow  straits. 

DOUGHTY.    The  strait  he  chose  was  narrower;  mayhap 
He  had  no  choice  —  as  I  may  not  to-morrow. 

[Is  silent  a  few  moments. 
A  little  while  ago,  the  scent  of  flowers 
Came  from  the  land.     Their  nimble  fragrance  woke, 
As  by  a  charm,  some  sleeping  memories. 
I  dreamed  myself  again  a  fair-haired  boy, 
A-gathering  cowslips  in  my  mother's  fields. 

[Pauses. 

There  is  no  order  that  I  shall  not  sing; 
I  can  no  mighty  treason  set  to  song. 

WINTER.     Sing,  if  it  please  you.     I  '11  be  glad  it  doth. 
What  song  shall 't  be  ? 

DOUGHTY.  Ah  me,  those  Devon  lanes  ! 

[Sings. 

SONG. 

I  would  I  were  an  English  rose, 
In  England  for  to  be ; 
The  sweetest  maid  that  Devon  knows 
Should  pick,  and  carry  me. 


FRANCIS   DRAKE  27 

To  pluck  my  leaves  be  tender  quick, 
A  fortune  fair  to  prove, 
And  count  in  love's  arithmetic 
Thy  pretty  sum  of  love. 

[The  men  come  nearer. 
Oh,  Devon's  lanes  be  green  o'ergrown, 
And  blithe  her  maidens  be, 
But  there  be  some  that  walk  alone, 
And  look  across  the  sea. 

IST  SAILOR.    'T  is  a  sad  shame  so  gay  a  gentleman 
Should  lie  in  irons. 
20  SAILOR.  Ay,  the  pity  of  it. 

WINTER    (to   the   men}.     Off  with   you   there!     (To 

DOUGHTY.)  The  devil 's  in  your  tongue ! 
Why  must  you  sing  of  England?  Follow  me. 
I  think  you  would  breed  mutiny  in  heaven. 

{Exit. 

Cabin  of  Pelican. 
DRAKE.     Enter  FLETCHER. 

FLETCHER.    I  come  as  bidden.    What  may  be 
your  will? 

DRAKE.     Think  you  a  man  may  serve  two  masters? 

FLETCHER.  Nay, 

T  is  not  so  writ 

DRAKE.  Yet  there  are  some  I  know 

Would  have  me  serve  a  dozen,  and  my  Queen. 
Shall  I  serve  this  man's  doubt,  and  that  man's  fear7 
Who  bade  these  cowards  follow  me  to  sea? 
And  you,  that  are  Christ's  captain, —  what  of  you? 


28  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

Were  I  a  man  vowed  wholly  unto  God, 

I  should  have  courage  both  of  God  and  man ; 

And  fear  's  a  malady  of  swift  infection. 

FLETCHER.     I  think  my  captain  has  been  ill  informed. 

DRAKE.    Ah,  not  so  ill.     Look  at  me,  in  the  face; 
A  man's  eyes  may  rest  honest,  though  his  soul 
Be  deeper  damned  than  Judas.     Thou  art  false ! 
False  to  thy  faith,  thy  duty,  and  thy  Prince ! 
Now,  if  thou  hast  no  righteous  fear  of  God  — 
By  heaven !  here  stands  a  man  you  well  may  fear. 

FLETCHER.    Indeed  I  know  not  how  I  Ve  angered  you. 

DRAKE.     You  shall  know  soon.     And  —  look  not  yet 

away  — 

You  have  hatched  treason  with  her  larger  help 
Of  one  that  hath  more  courage.     Spare  him  not 
If  you  have  hope  to  see  another  day. 
What  of  your  plans?     I  charge  you,  sir,  be  frank. 
What  has  he  told  that  you  should  fear  to  tell? 

FLETCHER.   We  did  but  talk.   Perchance  I  may  have  said 
I  do  not  love  the  sea,  that  some  aboard 
Would  be  well  pleased  to  stand  on  English  soil. 

DRAKE.     If  you  have  any  wisdom  of  this  world, 
A  coward  heart  may  save  a  foolish  head. 
I  asked  you  what  this  traitor  Doughty  said, 
You  answer  me  with  babble  of  yourself. 
Speak  out,  or,  by  my  honor, —  no  light  oath, — 
I  shall  so  score  you  with  the  boatswain's  lash 
That  Joseph's  coat  shall  be  a  mock  to  yours. 

FLETCHER.     You  would  not  —  dare  — 

DRAKE.  I  think  you  know  me  not. 

You  have  my  orders.     Is  it  yes,  or  no? 

FLETCHER.    I  pray  you,  sir,  consider  what  you  ask. 
No  priest  of  God  may,  without  deadly  sin, 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  29 

Tell  what  in  penitence  a  troubled  soul 
Has  in  confession  whispered.     Ask  me  not. 

DRAKE.     If  I  do  understand  your  words  aright, 
Save  for  the  idle  talk  of  idle  men, 
He  hath  said  nought  to  you  except  of  sin 
Such  as  the  best  may  in  an  hour  of  shame 
Tell  for  the  soul's  relief.     If  this  be  so, 
Nor  I,  nor  any  man,  may  question  you. 

FLETCHER.     I  do  assure  you  that  I  spoke  the  truth. 

DRAKE  (perplexed,  walks  to  and  fro.    Turns  suddenly, 
offering  the  hilt  of  his  sword).    Swear  it  upon  the 
cross-hilt  of  my  sword. 
Swear!   (Fletcher  hesitates.)     As  my  God  is  dear,  thou 

art  more  false 
Than   hell's   worst   devil.     Ho!     Without   there!     Ho! 

FLETCHER.     Nay,  I  will  swear. 

DRAKE.  Too  late.     Without  there !     Ho ! 

Send  me  the  boatswain's  mate.     Without  there !     Ho ! 
If  I  confess  thee  not,  thou  lying  priest, 
May  I  die  old  —  die  quiet  in  my  bed. 
Ho  there  !     And  quick  ! 

FLETCHER.  I  pray  you  —  let  me  think. 

It  may  be  that  I  did  not  understand. 
It  might  be  that  he  talked  to  me,  a  man, 
As  man  to  man.     I  think  't  was  even  so. 

DRAKE.     Out  with  it  — quickly!     Speak!     Out!     Out 
with  it ! 

FLETCHER.    I  think,  he  said,  the  purpose  of  this  voyage 
Was  hid,  and  all  of  us  are  cheated  men. 
It  seems,  he  said,  that  if  the  gentles  here 
Were  of  one  mind,  and  stirred  the  crews  to  act, 
We  might  see  England  and  our  homes  again. 

DRAKE.     What  more? 


30  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

FLETCHER.         Asked  whom  we'd  get  to  bell  the  cat. — 
And  that  the  Queen  your  errand  did  not  guess. 

DRAKE.    So  !  Said  he  that?    Go  on ;  your  tale  lacks  wit. 

FLETCHER.     Also,  that  storms  and  ever-vexing  winds 
Did  show  God's  will. 

DRAKE.  I  think  you  trifle,  sir. 

Did  he  talk  ever  of  my  Lord  of  Burleigh? 

FLETCHER.     I  fear  to  speak. 

DRAKE.  Fear  rather  to  be  silent. 

Here  lies  the  warrant  of  her  Majesty: 
'T  is  she,  not  I,  commands. 

FLETCHER.  He  seems  to  say 

They  would  best  serve  my  Lord  of  Burleigh's  wish 
Who  marred  this  venture,  ere  the  power  of  Spain 
Was  roused  to  open  war.  I  can  no  more. 

DRAKE.     See  that  your  memory  fail  not  on  the  morrow  ! 
Go  thank  the  devil  in  your  prayers  to-night 
For  that  your  skin  is  whole.     Begone !     Begone ! 

[Exit  FLETCHER. 

Now  know  I  what  it  costs  a  woman-prince 
To  keep  her  realm.     The  great  should  have  no  friends. 

Enter  VICARY,  WINTER,  and  CHESTER. 

DRAKE.     Call  all  the  captains  and  the  officers. 
The  court  shall  meet  to-morrow  morn,  at  eight. 
There  shall  be  charges  ready  in  due  form; 
You,  all  of  you,  shall  hear  the  witnesses. 
And,  Winter, —  we  are  far  from  England  now, — 
See  that  this  trial  be  in  all  things  fair, 
As  though  each  man  of  you,  an  ermined  judge, 
Sat  in  Westminster.     Let  no  words  of  mine 
Disturb  the  equities  of  patient  judgment. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  31 

I  would  not  that,  when  you  and  I  are  old, 

Uneasy  memories  of  too  hasty  action 

Should  haunt  us  with  reproach.     But  have  a  care. 

My  duty  knows  no  friend;  be  yours  as  ignorant. 

Our  fortunes  and  the  honor  of  the  Queen  — 

I  should  have  said  her  honor  and  our  fortunes  — 

Rest  in  your  hands.     See  that  my  words  be  known. 

WINTER.     To  all? 

DRAKE.  To  all,  sailors  and  gentlemen. 

[Exeunt  the  captains. 

WINTER,  VICARY,  dnd  CHESTER  without. 

CHESTER.     I  'm  like  a  child  that  fain  would  run  away 
To  'scape  a  whipping. 

WINTER.  There  are  none  of  us 

More  sore  at  heart  than  Drake. 

VICARY.  I  know  of  one. 

I  would  a  friend  were  dead  ere  break  of  day, 
And  all  to-morrow's  story  left  untold. 
I  think  that  I  shall  never  laugh  again. 

[They  reach  the  deck. 

CHESTER  (pointing  to  the  gibbet  on  the  shore}. 
It  may  be  yon  long-memoried  counsellor 
Made  hard  the  admiral's  heart. 

VICARY.  That  might  be  so. 

I  wandered  thither,  yesterday,  at  eve, 
And  found  a  skull.     Didst  ever  notice,  Winter, 
How  this  least  mortal  relic  of  a  man 
Does  seem  to  smile?     Hast  ever  talked  with  skulls? 
They  are  courteous  ever,  and  good  listeners. 
And  never  one  of  them,  or  man  or  maid, 
That  is  not  secret.     There's  another  virtue; 


32  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

For  what  more  honest  and  more  chaste  than  death? 
Now  then,  this  skull  that  grins  an  hundred  years  — 
Pray  think  how  mighty  must  the  jest  have  been; 
And  then,  how  transient  are  our  living  smiles. 

WINTER.     Ill-omened  talk.     A  graver  business  waits. 

VICARY.     Give  me  an  hour.    I  am  not  well  to-day. 
I  will  be  with  you  very  presently.  \Exit  VICARY. 

Evening  of  the  day  of  the  trial  and  condemnation  of 
DOUGHTY.  Time,  sunset.  Ashore  on  St.  Julian's 
Island. 

WINTER.     VICARY.     DRAKE. 
DRAKE  walking  to  and  fro  under  the  trees. 

WINTER  (coming  up  and  walking  beside  him}.     What 
orders  are  there? 

DRAKE.  See  the  prisoner, 

And  bid  him  choose  the  hour  and  the  day. 

WINTER.     And  for  the  manner  of  the  execution? 
The  court  said  nothing;  sir,  it  lies  with  you. 
What  is  your  pleasure? 

DRAKE.  Say  my  will,  John  Winter. 

The  gallows  and  the  rope ! 

VICARY  (returning}.  Must  that  be  so? 

*T  is  a  dog's  death,  and  not  a  gentleman's. 

DRAKE.     I  have  at  home  a  very  honest  dog. 

VICARY.     Wilt  pardon  me  if  once  again  I  plead? 

DRAKE.     Plead  not  with  me.     No  plea  the  heart  can 

bring 
My  own  heart  fails  to  urge. 

WINTER.  I  made  no  plea. 

The  man  I  loved  this  morn  for  me  is  dead. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  33 

But  there  are  those  in  England  —  far  away  — 
Mother  and  sister  — 

DRAKE.  Sir,  you  have  my  orders ! 

Henceforth  no  friends  for  me !     This  traitor  dies, 
As  traitors  all  should  die,  a  traitor's  death. 
The  man's  life  judges  him,  not  you,  nor  I. 

VICARY.     Indeed,  the  manner  of  a  man's  departure, 
Whether  upon  a  war-horse  or  an  ass, 
Doth  little  matter,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
If  those  he  leaves  feel  not  the  fashion  of  it. 
Now,  many  a  year  that  rope  will  throttle  me, 
Who  am  no  traitor,  and  who  like  not  well 
What  treachery  this  man's  nature  moved  him  to. 

DRAKE.      It  seems  to  me  that  good  men's  lives  are  spent 
In  paying  debts  another  makes  for  them. 
I  have  my  share.     Take  you  your  portion,  too. 
Be  just,  I  pray  you,  both  to  him  and  me. 
Now,  here  's  a  man  that  was  my  closest  friend. 
In  Plymouth,  ay,  in  London,  ere  we  sailed, 
Against  the  pledge  myself  had  given  the  Queen, 
He  told  the  purpose  of  my  voyage  to  Burleigh, 
Pledging  himself  to  wreck  this  enterprise, 
Lest  we  should  rouse  these  Spanish  curs  to  bite. 
That  I  do  hold  the  warrant  of  the  Queen 
None  but  this  traitor  knew,  and,  knowing  it, 
Has  set  himself  to  brewing  discontent, 
Stirred  mutiny  amidst  my  crews,  cast  wide 
The  seed  of  discord,  till  obedience, 
That  is  the  feather  on  the  shaft  of  duty, 
Failed,  and  my  very  captains  questioned  me. 
One  man  must  die,  or  this  great  venture  dies; 
This  man  must  die,  or  we  go  backward  home, 
Like  mongrel  dogs  that  fear  a  shaken  stick, 


34  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

WINTER.     Yet  none  of  us  have  asked  his  life  of  you. 

DRAKE.     I  ask  it  of  myself;  shall  ask  it,  sir, 
Knowing  how  vain  and  pitiful  my  plea. 
I  have  said  nothing  of  the  darker  charge, 
The  covert  hints,  the  whispering  here  and  there 
Of  how  my  death  might  please  my  Lord  of  Burleigh, 
And  settle  all  these  mutinous  debates. 
I  think  't  was  but  an  idle  use  of  speech ; 
I  think  he  meant  not  it  should  come  to  aught. 

WINTER.     Nor  I. 

VICARY.  Nor  I.     He  hath  confessed  to  all 

Except  this  single  charge.     That  he  denied. 

DRAKE.     And  now  no  more !     And  hope  not  I   shall 

change. 

Yet  will  I  well  consider  all  your  words. 
Rest  you  assured  if  there  be  any  way 
That  both  secures  the  safety  of  this  voyage 
And  leaves  this  man  to  future  punishment, 
I  shall  not  miss  to  find  it. 

WINTER.  That  were  well. 

I  somewhat  fear  the  temper  of  the  men. 
And  these  grave  statesmen,  closeted  at  home, 
Have  slight  indulgence  for  the  sterner  needs 
That  whip  us  into  what  seems  rash  or  cruel. 

DRAKE.     Ah,  many  a  day  'twixt  us  and  England  lies, 
And  the  peacemaker's  blessing  rests  on  time. 
If  death  await  me  in  the  distant  seas, 
I  shall  not  fear  to  meet  a  higher  Judge. 
If  fortune  smile  upon  our  happy  voyage, 
No  man  in  England  that  will  dare  to  say 
I  served  not  well  my  country  and  my  God ; 
The  Queen  will  guard  my  honor  as  her  own. 
But,  come  what  may,  sirs,  I  shall  act  unmoved 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  35 

By  any  dread  of  what  the  great  may  do, 
Though  we  should  prick  this  sullen  Spain  to  war. 

VICARY.     Now,  by  St.  George,  could  we  but  stir  the 

Dons 

To  open  fight !     The  Queen  has  many  minds, 
But  when  the  blades  are  out,  and  Philip  strikes, 
As  strike  he  will,  these  wary  counsellors 
Will  lose  her  ear  amid  the  clash  of  swords. 

DRAKE.     Pray  God  that  I  do  live  to  see  the  day 
When  all  the  might  of  England  takes  the  sea, 
And  we,  that  are  the  falcons  of  the  deep, 
Shall  tear  these  cruel  vultures,  till  our  beaks 
Drip  red  with  Spanish  blood ! 

VICARY.  May  I  be  there ! 

DRAKE  (gravely).     Trust  me,  we  all  shall  live  to  see 

that  hour. 

God  gives  us  moments  when  the  years  to  come 
Lie  easily  open  like  a  much-read  book. 
Oppressed  with  weight  of  care,  in  these  last  days 
I  seem  to  see  beyond  this  bitter  time. 
We  shall  so  carry  us  in  yon  Rome-locked  seas 
That  all  the  heart  of  England  shall  be  glad, 
And  the  brown  mothers  of  these  priest-led  Dons 
Shall  scare  unruly  children  with  my  name. 
And  then,  and  then,  I  see  a  nobler  hour. 
A  day  of  mightier  battle,  when  their  fleets 
Shall  fly  in  terror  from  our  English  guns, 
And  through  the  long  hereafter  we  shall  sail 
Unquestioned  lords  of  all  the  watery  waste. 
Oh,  't  was  a  noble  dream ! 

VICARY.  But  what  were  life 

Without  the  splendid  prophecy  of  dreams? 

DRAKE.     At  least,  a  moment  they  have  given  release 


36  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

From  sadder  thought  of  that  which  has  to  be. 
The  night  is  falling.     Get  we  now  aboard. 
To-morrow  you  shall  have  my  final  judgment. 

A  cabin  in  the  Pelican.     Early  morning.     The  day  after 
the  trial  and  condemnation  of  DOUGHTY. 

DOUGHTY.    Enter  WINTER. 

DOUGHTY.     Is  there  an  hour  set?    When  shall  it  be? 

WINTER.  That  rests  with  you.  Alas,  too  well  you  know 
That,  being  charged  with  certain  grave  offences, 
Of  which,  to  our  great  grief,  you  are  not  cleared, 
The  court  decreed  your  death.     Now,  I  am  come 
To  offer  you  thus  much  of  grace  — 

DOUGHTY.  As  what? 

WINTER.     Either  to  be  at  morning  left  ashore, 
Or  to  be  held  till,  at  convenient  time, 
A  ship  may  carry  you  to  England,  there 
To  answer  for  your  deeds  the  Lords  in  Council ; 
Or  will  you  take  to  be  here  done  to  death 
As  runs  our  sentence? 

DOUGHTY.  Would  I  had  no  choice. 

That 's  a  strange  riddle !     Here  be  caskets  three. 
'T  is  like  the  story  in  the  Venice  tale. 
Thank  Francis  Drake  for  me.     I  '11  think  upon  it. 
And  send  me  Leonard  Vicary  with  good  speed. 

WINTER.     Is  there  aught  else  a  man  may  do  for  you? 

DOUGHTY.     Yes,  come  no  more  until  I  send  for  you. 

WINTER.     Have  I  in  anything  offended  you? 

DOUGHTY.     No,  you  have  too  much  loved  me;  that  is 

all. 
The  sting  lies  there. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  37 

WINTER.  I  do  not  understand. 

DOUGHTY.     And  I  too  well.     Wilt  send  me  Vicary? 

WINTER  (aside}.     As  strange  a  monitor  for  a  mortal 

hour 
As  e'er  a  sick  life's  fancy  hit  upon.  [Exit. 

DOUGHTY  (alone}.     This  is  a  sad  disguise  of  clemency. 
Death  seemed  a  natural  and  safe  conclusion. 
As  one  serenely  bound  upon  a  voyage, 
I  had  turned  my  back  on  all  I  did  hold  dear, 
And  looked  no  more  to  land.     I  think,  indeed, 
Almost  the  very  touch  and  sound  of  life 
Seemed  fading,  as  when  sleep  comes  wholesomely. 
Now  I  am  in  the  wakened  world  again. 
And  all  the  blissful  company  of  youth, 
Love,  friendship,  hope,  the  mere  esteem  of  men, 
Beckon,  and  mock  me  like  to  sunlit  fields 
Seen  from  the  wave-crests  where  a  swimmer  strives, 
Struck  hither,  thither,  by  uneasy  seas. 
Christ  to  my  help !     Ah,  counsel  always  best. 

How  should  I  bide  upon  these  heathen  shores? 
Knowing  how  frail  I  be,  how  strong  a  thing 
Is  the  contagion  of  base  men's  customs. 
Alas  !  alas !     I  ever  have  been  one 
That  wore  the  color  of  the  hour's  friend. 
What !  risk  my  soul,  that  hath  an  endless  date, 
For  days  or  years  of  life?     That  may  not  be. 

What!  home  to  England?     I,  a  tainted  man; 
That 's  the  gold  casket  where  temptation  lies. 
There  is  no  unconsidered  blade  of  grass, 
No  little  daisy,  and  no  violet  brief, 
That  does  not  hurt  me  with  its  sweet  appeal. 

[Walks  to  and  fro. 


3  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

I  mind  me  of  an  evening  —  O  my  God ! 
No !     That  way  anguish  waits.     I  '11  none  of  that. 
Twice,  in  my  dreams  last  night,  I  saw  her  come; 
And  twice  she  cried,  "  First  Honor,  and  then  love ! 
And  came  no  more.     O  Jesu,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  let  me  never  in  that  other  world 
Meet  the  sad  verdict  of  those  troubled  eyes 
I  kissed  to  tears  the  day  we  sailed  away. 

Enter  VICARY. 

You  are  most  welcome;  sit  beside  me  here. 
I  found  my  sentence  in  a  woman's  eyes. 

VICARY.     I  understand. 

DOUGHTY.  How  ever  apt  you  are; 

That  took  my  fancy  always.     Now,  it  saves 
The  turning  of  a  dagger  in  a  wound. 
I  have  chosen  death. 

VICARY.  And  chosen  well,  I  think. 

There  was  not  one  of  us  that  said  not  so; 
Not  one  but  wishes  life  were  possible. 

DOUGHTY.     Set  that  aside.     It  is  not  possible. 
And  put  no  strain  upon  your  natural  self 
To  be  another  than  the  man  you  are. 
Do  you  remember  once  a  thing  you  said, — 
How  for  the  wise  the  soul  has  chapels  four? 
One,  that  I  name  not.     One,  a  home  of  tears. 
One,  the  grave  shrine  of  high  philosophy. 
And  one,  where  all  the  saints  are  jesters  gay. 
Smile  on  me  when  I  die.     In  that  dim  world 
I  am  assured  men  laugh,  as  well  they  may, 
To  see  this  ant-heap  stirred.     Oh,  I  shall  look 
To  see  you  smile. 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  39 

VICARY.  I  pray  you  talk  not  thus. 

DOUGHTY.     And  wherefore  not?    A  moment,  only  one, 
The  thought  of  England  troubled  my  decision ; 
But  that  is  over.     Yet,  a  word  of  home. 
There  is  a  maid  in  Devon —  (hesitates.)     Pardon  me. 
When,  by  God's  grace,  you  see  her,  as  you  must, 
Tell  her  I  loved  her  well  —  and  what  beside 
I  leave  to  you.     I  shall  not  hear  the  tale. 
Be  gentle  in  the  way  of  your  report. 
Ah  me !  by  every  cross  a  woman  kneels ; 
I  doubt  not,  Leonard,  that  some  Syrian  girl 
Sobbed  where  the  thief  hung  dying.     Now,  good-by ! 
Go !  and  remember  —  I  shall  hold  you  to  it. 

{Exit  VICARY. 

Oft  when  the  tides  of  life  were  at  their  full, 
I  have  sat  wondering  what  the  ebb  would  be, 
And  what  that  tideless  moment  men  call  death. 
I  think  it  strange  as  nears  the  coining  hour, 
I  willingly  would  fetch  it  yet  more  near. 

VICARY   (without,  as  he  goes  on  deck).     He  asks  a 

smile  where  nature  proffers  tears. 
I  have  laughed  tears  before,  and  may  again. 
Here  dies  a  man  who,  like  that  heir  of  Lynne, 
Has  madly  squandered  honor,  friendship,  love, 
And  hath  no  refuge  save  the  dismal  rope. 
Shall  that  bring  other  fortunes  than  he  spent? 
Ah  me  !  I  loved  him  well, —  and  I  must  smile  — 
That  will  seem  strange  to  men.     I  sometimes  wish 
I  could  feel  sure  that  Christ  did  ever  smile. 

Enter  DRAKE. 

DRAKE.     I  come  to  hear  thy  choice. 

DOUGHTY.  My  choice  is  made. 


40  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

Death,  and  no  long  delay.     And  be  not  grieved; 
You  will  —  ah,  well  I  know  you  —  feel  the  hurt. 
Were  you  to  say,  "  Take  life,  take  hope  again, 
Take  back  command,"  and  bid  me  mend  my  ways, 
The  mercy  were  but  vanity  of  kindness. 
Never  could  I  be  other  than  I  am; 
Yet  think  of  me  as  but  the  minute's  traitor. 
You  have  been  merciful.     'T  is  I  am  stern. 
Not  you,  but  I,  decree  that  I  shall  die. 
A  sudden  weariness  of  life  is  mine; 
Let  me  depart  in  peace  — 

DRAKE.  Must  it  be  so? 

Another  court  may  clear  you. 

DOUGHTY.  Urge  me  not. 

Another  court !     There  is  but  one  high  court 
May  clear  my  soul  of  guilt.     I  go  to  God. 
There  shall  be  witnesses  you  cannot  call. 
Let  this  suffice.     No  man  can  move  me  now ; 
And  rest  assured  I  never  loved  you  more. 

DRAKE.     I  thank  you.     Now,  what  else? 

DOUGHTY.  I  choose  to  die. 

Go  we  ashore  at  noon,  and  eat  at  table, 
Like  gentlemen  who  speed  a  parting  friend 
Upon  a  pleasant  and  a  certain  voyage: 
And  I  would  share  with  you  the  bread  of  God.  [Pauses. 
There  is  but  one  thing  more  — 

DRAKE.  Speak  !     Oh,  my  God ! 

Except  —  except  mere  life,  there  is  no  thing 
I  would  not  give  you;  yea,  to  my  own  life. 

DOUGHTY.     You  cannot  think  that  I  would  ask  my  life  ? 

DRAKE.     Pardon,  sweet  gentleman,  and  sweeter  friend. 

DOUGHTY.     There  is  a  maid   in  Devon  — oh,   Frank 
Drake ! 


FRANCIS   DRAKE  41 

It  must  not  be  the  gibbet  and  the  rope ! 

The  axe  and  block,  men  say,  cure  all  disgrace. 

DRAKE.     So  shall  it  be. 

DOUGHTY.  I  knew  you  not  unkind. 

I  pray  you  leave  me  now.     God  prosper  you. 
You  cannot  know  how  kind  a  thing  is  death. 


Island  of  St.  Julian.  Table  spread  at  noon,  under  the 
trees.  DRAKE  seated  with  DOUGHTY  and  other  officers. 
In  the  background,  a  block,  with  the  headsman,  sailors, 
and  others. 

VICARY  and  WINTER  approach  the  table. 

VICARY.     Didst  hear,  John  Winter,  what  he  said  to 

him? 
WINTER.     I  had  but  come  ashore.     What  said  he, 

Leonard? 
VICARY.     First,  he  would  have  the  admiral  take  the 

bread ; 

Then,  when  in  turn  the  priest  did  come  to  him, 
He  said,  "  I  would  another  man  than  you 
Were  here  to  give  me  of  this  bread  of  God. 
Yet,  as  for  this  dear  body  of  my  Lord, 
A  pearl  that 's  carried  in  a  robber's  pouch 
Doth  lose  no  lustre;"  and  with  no  more  words 
Took  of  the  sacrament;  and  so  to  table. 

[They  approach  sadly  and  in  silence. 
DOUGHTY  (looking  up}.  Come,  come,  I  '11  none  of  this  ! 

Here  are  bent  brows; 

You  go  not  thus  to  battle.     Shall  one  death 
Disturb  our  appetites  and  spoil  our  mirth? 


42  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

Am  I  not  host  ?     They  '11  not  be  bid  again 

Who  come  not  merry.     (Aside  to  VICARY.)     See  you 

fail  me  not. 

Some  men  ask  prayers.     I  only  ask  a  smile. 
(Aloud.)     Come,  gentlemen,  I  put  this  hardship  on  you. 
There  might  be  many  questions,  much  to  say. 

DRAKE.     I  shall  sit  here  forever,  if  you  will, 
But  talk  I  cannot. 

DOUGHTY.  Nay,  but  that  is  strange. 

'T  is  the  glad  privilege  of  the  gentle-born 
To  see  in  death  an  honest  creditor, 
That  any  day  may  ask  the  debt  of  life. 
What !  must  I  make  the  talk?     That 's  naughty  manners. 
I  never  was  a  happier  man  than  now. 
There  's  few  among  you  shall  have  choice  of  deaths. 
And  you,  Frank  Drake, —  if  God  should  bid  elect  — 
What  way  to  death  wouldst  choose? 

DRAKE.  I  do  not  know  — 

Not  in  my  bed,  please  God. 

DOUGHTY.  Speak  for  him,  Leonard. 

I  think  my  friend  has  shed  his  wits  to-day. 
Once  he  was  readier  — 

VICARY.  Were  I  Francis  Drake, 

When  waves  are  wild  and  fly  the  bolts  of  war, 
And  timbers  crash,  and  decks  are  bloody  red, 
Then  would  I  pass,  slain  by  my  loving  sea, 
As  died  the  hurt  Greek  by  a  friendly  sword. 

DOUGHTY.     Full  bravely  answered.     Winter,  what  of 
you? 

WINTER.     As  God  may  will.     I  have  no  other  thought. 

DOUGHTY  (to  VICARY).     And  what,  dear  jester,  Leon 
ard,  what  of  you? 

VICARY.     Oh,  between  kisses,  of  a  morn  of  May, 


FRANCIS    DRAKE  43 

Or  in  the  merriest  moment  of  a  fight, 

When  blades  are  out,  and  the  brave  Dons  stand  fast  — 

Upon  my  soul,  I  can  no  more  of  this, 

You  ask  too  much  of  man.     I  can  no  more ! 

[Leaves  the  table. 
DOUGHTY.     Now,  here 's  a  dull  companion.     Go  not 

yet  — 
Or  go  not  far,  and  let  not  sorrow  cheat  me. 

VICARY.     Oh,  I  shall  smile.     Rest  you  assured  of  that. 

[Moves  azvay. 

DOUGHTY.  I  thought  he  had  been  made  of  sterner  stuff. 
There's  a  too  gentle  jester.     (To  DRAKE.)     Think  you, 

Frank, 
That  we  shall  meet  in  heaven? 

DRAKE.  Such  is  my  trust. 

[They  talk  in  whispers. 
DOUGHTY    (aloud}.     The    wind    lies    fair    to    south. 

Friends,  gentles,  all, 

It  were  not  well  to  lose  a  prospering  hour. 
God  send  you  kindly  gales  and  gallant  ventures ! 
Strike  hard  for  me,  John  Winter !     When  the  Dons 
Are  thick  about  you  and  the  fight  goes  ill, 
Cry,  This  is  for  remembrance !     This,  and  this ! 
And  you,  dear  Leonard,  when  the  feast  is  gay 
Drink  double  for  your  friend.     Be  sure  my  lips 
Shall  share  with  yours  the  laughter  and  the  cup. 

[Rises,  as  do  all. 
Now,  then:  The  Queen  and  England!     (Drinks.)      (To 

DRAKE.)     Take  my  love. 
Still  let  me  live  a  friendly  memory  — 
Come  with  me. 

DRAKE.  No,  I  cannot,  cannot  come ! 

[Moves  away. 


44  FRANCIS    DRAKE 

DOUGHTY  (To  VICARY,  as  they  ivalk  to  the  block.) 
What,  not  a  smile?  Not  one?  That's  better, 
Leonard, 

Albeit  of  a  rather  sickly  sort. 

Come    hither,    Francis    Drake.     (DRAKE    approaches.) 
Good-by,  dear  friend. 

[Kisses  him  on  both  cheeks.    Kneels,  and  the  axe  falls. 

VICARY.     God  rest  this  soul ! 

WINTER.  Amen ! 

DRAKE.  Christ  comfort  me  ! 


PHILIP  VERNON 

THE     INN 

JULY  21,   1588 

WHEN  Bess  was  queen,  and  the  Bishop  of  Rome  and 
the  King  of  Spain  were  troubling  our  England,  the 
cowls  were  many  in  the  land,  and  knew  how  to  pull 
the  lamb-skins  well  around  them. 

One  of  these  wolves,  of  a  summer  morning,  walked, 
halting  a  little,  to  and  fro  under  the  great  oaks  be 
tween  the  Vernon  Arms  and  the  road.  His  sheep's 
clothing  was  a  burgher's  gray  hose  and  doublet;  but 
he  was  not  right,  red  English,  having  of  late  come 
out  of  Spain,  yellow-cheeked  and  lean.  He  looked 
down  the  highway  to  the  bridge,  and  then  with  his 
eyes  followed  the  river  curves  to  the  sea,  whence,  he 
smiled  to  think,  the  great  Armada  would  come,  in 
time  to  help  certain  wicked  schemes,  and  set  the 
cowls  again  in  high  places.  Then,  less  pleased,  he  cast 
looks  at  a  gallant  in  blue  with  yellow  points,  who  sat 
at  a  table  a  little  way  from  the  inn.  This  gentle  had 
a  good  leg  and  was  high-colored  and  young.  At  times 

45 


46  PHILIP   VERNON 

he  drummed  on  the  table,  or  uneasily  cast  down  his 
cap,  and  once  half  drew  his  sword,  then  presently,  as 
if  impatient,  drove  it  back  into  its  sheath.  But  whether 
he  yawned  or  sat  quiet  in  thought,  Hugh  Langmayde, 
the  priest  in  gray,  lost  naught  of  what  he  did;  and  at 
last,  still  watching  the  gallant,  he  fell  to  open  talk  with 
himself  after  this  fashion : 

"  Soon  shall  you  stretch  those  sturdy  limbs,  my  boy, 
And  for  your  rapier  find  a  brave  employ. 
I  am  too  old,  too  feeble, —  you  alone 
Shall  do  this  sacred  errand  of  our  Lord, 
Avenge  his  murdered  saints,  and  from  her  throne 
Cast  down  this  Jezebel,  of  men  abhorred. 
I  thought  not,  when  I  taught  thy  youth  to  know 
One  creed,  one  king,  and  questionless  to  go 
Where  Church  or  King  decreed,  that  you  and  I, 
As  if  we  were  but  one,  like  head  and  hand, 
Should  free  this  England  which  doth  fettered  lie, 
And  give  to  God  another  Christian  land. 

"What  if  my  weapon  fail  me?     Restless  grown, 

He  asks  now  this,  now  that,  would  have  me  own 

My  purpose, —  hath  the  waywardness  of  youth, — 

Is  wilful,  petulant,  or  grave.     In  truth, 

It  shall  mean  little  when  he  comes  to  learn 

What  splendid  bribe  an  eager  hand  may  earn, 

And  at  my  will  he  goes  my  way  to  win 

God's  gold  or  this  world's  guerdon.     Is  it  sin 

To  shudder  thinking  death  may  be  his  lot? 

My  task  were  easier  if  he  loved  me  not. 

God's   priest   should   die   unloved;    should   have   no 

fears, 
Live  without  memories,  and  know  not  tears." 


PHILIP    VERNON  47 

Herewith  the  young  gallant,  Philip  Vernon  by  name, 
calls  out  to  a  servant  of  the  inn : 

"  Fetch  me  some  ale,  good  fellow.     Set  it  here  — 
Two  brimming  tankards.     See  't  is  cool  and  clear. 
How  fresh  the  air !     I  like  this  breezy  shade 
The  better  since  by  sunshine  it  is  made. 
Our  Spanish  saying  aptly  hits  my  mark : 

Soar  with  the  hawk, 

Sing  with  the  lark; 

Eyes  for  the  sunlight, 

Lips  for  the  dark. 

St.  James !     I  'm  weary  of  my  unused  self, 
Left  like  a  dull  book  on  a  dusty  shelf. 
I  hate  this  corner  life  !     Now,  by  the  Cid ! 
I  must  be  more  discreet.     I  'm  sternly  bid 
To  hide  my  name  because  my  name  may  lead  — - 
I  know  not  why  —  to  questions  that  exceed 
Our  skill  to  answer  fitly. —  Master  Hugh, 
Come  taste  with  me  our  host's  last  autumn  brew." 

Hearing  his  call,  the  priest,  smiling,  sits  down  beside 
the  young  man  he  had  been  gravely  watching;  and 
taking  of  the  ale, —  but  with  a  wry  face,  for  in  Spain 
he  had  learned  dislike  of  such  honest  English  drink, — 
he  lays  a  hand  on  the  lad's  knee,  and  says  to  him: 

"  What  troubles  you,  my  Philip?  " 

PHILIP  VERNON.  We  have  strayed 

Now  here,  now  there,  in  England,  while  you  played 
A  game,  good  Father,  somewhat  like  the  chess 
Our  prior  loved.     You  smile  on  me, —  my  guess 


48  PHILIP   VERNON 

Has  hit  the  butt?     Here  moves  a  pawn,  and  there, 
Haply,  a  bishop.     Then  the  queen  — 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Beware! 

You  chatter  lightly,  call  me  "  Father  " —  try 
To  lose  the  habit;  that  way  dangers  lie. 
One  careless  word,  and  rack  and  axe  or  rope 
Await  us;  and  so  dies  the  saintliest  hope 
This  misruled  kingdom  knows.     To  die  were  gain 
For  me ;  and  yet  God's  work,  the  Church,  our  Spain, 
The  king,  our  master,  own  me  till  this  strife 
With  evil  ends.     Be  patient ! 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Oh,  this  life 

Of  masquerade,  and  lies,  and  daily  fear 
Of  what  I  know  not,  wearies  me ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Not  here 

The  time  or  place  for  truant  tongues.     Speak  low, 
Or,  better,  change  the  talk. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Soon  I  must  know. 

The  priest,  emptying  his  tankard  and  pushing  it  from 
him,  looks  askance  at  his  companion,  and  therewith 
says,  as  if  to  quiet  his  mind  with  other  thought: 

"  Poor  stuff  is  this  beside  our  convent  wine. 
You  need  but  squeeze  the  ripeness  of  the  vine 
To  drain  its  reddest  blood :  —  torment  the  grains 
God  meant  for  bread,  and  lo !  you  get  for  pains 
This  boorish  drink." 

And  now  is  heard  a  quick  rattle  of  horse-hoofs,  and  a 
score  of  gentles  come  down  the  road  at  speed.  Some 


PHILIP    VERNON  49 

are  armed,  and  more  are  clad  in  gay  doublets,  with 
plumes  unmeet  for  riding  —  sign  of  haste,  perchance. 
Red,  blue,  and  purple,  with  glint  of  steel,  flash  through 
the  yellow  dust,  aglow  with  the  sun  of  noon,  as  the 
riders  go  by  the  inn.  But  three  draw  rein  beneath 
the  oaks;  whereon  this  Philip  Vernon  leaps  up,  over 
setting  a  flagon  of  good  ale,  and  crying: 

"  Look,  look,  ye  saints  !     That  roan, 
And  that  dark  chestnut, —  his  who  rode  alone, — 
Are  worth  a  prince's  ransom  !     See  —  they  stay 
To  breathe  their  horses.     He  with  plume  of  gray 
Hath  the  best  seat.     Red  Doublet 's  all  untrussed : 
He  must  have  ridden  hard ;  and,  see  —  the  dust ! 
Why  ride  they  thus  ?  " 

As  he  speaks  the  servants  and  landlord  come  hastily 
forth  from  the  inn. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.          Hush  !     Out  comes  all  the  hive. 
You  shall  know  shortly. 

RED  DOUBLET.  Ho!  are  none  alive? 

The  Armada  's  off  the  Lizard.     Look  aright 
That  all  your  headland  beacons  blaze  to-night! 
These  be  Lord  Howard's  orders.     Ho,  there,  quick ! 
Ale,  ale  —  three  flagons  ! 

GRAY  PLUME.  Wine,  wine  !     I  am  sick 

With  dusty  thirst. 

RED  DOUBLET.  And  I  could  drink  a  tun. 

As  they  sit  in  the  saddle,  the  fair  maid  of  the  inn 
brings  to  each  his  flagon  of  ale. 


5°  PHILIP   VERNON 

ONE  ARMED  IN  A  CUIRASS.     Keep  me  some  kisses. 

RED  DOUBLET.  I  shall  ask  but  one. 

MAID.     Oh,  my  good  lords,  there  shall  not  lack  a  prayer 
From  one  poor  wench  that  God  your  lives  will  spare. 
Alas !  alas !  I  'm  mightily  afraid 
Scarce  will  be  left  a  man  to  kiss  a  maid ! 
This  dreadful  war  !  — 

GRAY  PLUME.  Now,  by  the  gods !  but  he 

Will  truly  have  his  hands  full. —  This  for  thee ! 
—  The  admiral  rides  hard,  and  we  must  sup 
Aboard  the  ships. —  Thanks  for  the  stirrup-cup. 

A  hand  on  the  bridle, 
A  cup  of  good  sack; 
Pray  keep  those  lips  idle 
Until  I  come  back. 

RED  DOUBLET. 

Here  's  a  curse  on  Romish  rats ! 
Here  's  good  luck  to  English  cats ! 

Then  he  who  wore  a  cuirass,   as  they  ride  away, 
sings  lustily : 

''  T  is  always  pleasant  weather 

In  the  company  of  wine; 

And  the  mile-stones  run  together, 

And  the  roughest  road  is  fine, 

In  the  company  of  wine. 

For  no  man  owes  a  shilling, 

And  all  the  land  is  thine. 

And  every  lip  is  willing, 

In  the  company  of  wine." 


PHILIP    VERNON  51 

LANDLORD.     God  keep  our  England  merry ! 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Who  be  they 

Who  ride  so  hotly  at  full  noon  of  day? 

LANDLORD.     Howard  of  Effingham,  Lord  High  Admiral, 
A  lover  of  the  Pope,  and  yet  withal 
A  sturdy  gentle,  English  to  the  core, 
And  hates  a  Spaniard.     What  can  one  say  more? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.     Where  rides  he  now? 

LANDLORD.  To  Plymouth  Port.     The  coast 

Is  all  astir.     The  great  Armada's  host 
Is  come  at  last.     God  help  our  little  fleet ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.     God  help  the  right  and  England ! 
LANDLORD.  Aye. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Retreat 

Could  scarce  fly  swifter  than  these  gallants  ride. 
I  would,  good  Father,  I  were  at  their  side. 

Hereon  Hugh  Langmayde  and  Philip  together  leave  the 
inn  and  highroad,  and  as  they  slowly  climb  a  little 
hill,  and  begin  to  enter  into  a  wood  of  oak,  the  priest 
makes  this  answer  to  the  lad's  vexation  of  spirit : 

"  Peace,  boy !     Thy  ways  are  in  a  nobler  path. 
They  ride  to  death.     Already  God's  stern  wrath 
Is  gathering  for  their  ruin  on  the  seas. 
Come  with  me,  Philip.     There  among  the  trees 
Talk  will  be  safer.     Come, —  the  hour  of  fate 
Is  near  at  hand.     You  shall  no  longer  wait 
To  hear  the  tale  I  ofttimes  promised  you 


52  PHILIP   VERNON 

When,  the  day's  lessons  done,  at  fall  of  dew 

Above  Grenada  from  the  convent  wall 

We  watched  the  paling  gold  of  evening  crawl 

From  peak  to  peak,  while  o'er  the  Vega's  plain 

The  dusking  shadows  marched.     Thus,  not  in  vain. 

When  all  the  lower  world  is  dim  and  gray, 

God  sets  the  promise  of  another  day 

On  those  his  Church  has  taught  to  live  above 

Man's  mist  of  passions  —  aye,  and  earthly  love." 


THE    CHASE 

As  they  move  through  the  wood  the  priest  pauses  at 
last  where  from  a  hillside  the  more  open  forest  com 
mands  a  broad  view  of  green  fields,  the  river  with 
hills  beyond,  and  to  left  the  distant  sea. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     How  still  it  is,  how  full  of  peace,  how 

far 

From  the  rude  hurry  and  alarm  of  war! 
See  what  an  airy  build  the  mountains  show 
When  over  them  the  broad-winged  shadows  go. 
A  land  to  love  ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.     Ay,  and  a  land  to  serve 
With  noble  deeds  that  may  indeed  deserve 
This  splendid  recompense.     A  land  to  win 
Back  from  its  damned  covenant  with  sin. 
Sit  here,  my  son.     Once  this  great  fallen  tree 
Looked  o'er  the  land,  and  could  no  equal  see. 
Lord  of  the  forest,  underneath  its  shade 
The  wanderer  rested.     Here  both  man  and  maid 
Found  shelter.     High  among  its  eaves 


PHILIP    VERNON  53 

The  birds  sang  hymns  which  God  alone  had  taught, 

Or  nested  peaceful  in  its  spreading  leaves, 

Where  sun  and  rain  His  mystic  wonders  wrought. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     I  see  not  clearly,  Father  — 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  No,  my  son, 

A  nation  wandered  from  the  fold,  undone, 
Sunk  in  delusion,  waits  full  many  a  year  — 
Waits  for  God's  hour  to  read  that  riddle  clear. 
Once,  in  this  land,  the  Church  spread  broad  and  high 
The  mighty  leafage  of  her  destiny  — 
Why  mince  my  meaning?     Lo !  a  brutal  king 
Struck,  and  the  splendid  trunk  lies  moldering. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     And  still  I  see  not  wherefore  — 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Ah  !     The  rest 

Attends  your  hearing.     Soon  this  land  oppressed 
Shall  know  deliverance.     O'er  yon  waiting  sea 
Great  Philip's  viceroy  comes.     To  you,  to  me, 
God  grants  on  land  as  sure  a  victory. 
And  now,  my  Philip,  hear  me  to  an  end. 
In  happier  times  I  shall  be  glad  to  mend 
My  broken  story  of  your  life.     To-day 
Accept  a  briefer  tale.     I  have  grown  gray 
Now  many  years,  since  through  these  woods  I  fled, 
A  hunted  priest,  this  land  where  God  seemed  dead. 
Pursuit  was  hot ;  my  boat  lay  off  the  shore ; 
A  bullet  caught  me  as  I  plunged;  a  score 
Flew  over.     Still  this  crippled  leg,  my  lad, 
Keeps  me  a  memory  not  wholly  sad ; 
For,  as  I  bleeding  strove,  a  boy's  white  face 
Rose  in  a  black  wave's  hollow.     By  God's  grace 


54  PHILIP    VERNON 

I   clutched   your   hand,   my   son.     The   boat's   crew 

caught 

The  pair  of  us,  half-drowned;  and  so  God  wrought 
This  great  deliverance.     I  think  the  tide 
Trapped  you  at  play  on  yonder  sands.     I  tried 
To  set  you  safe  upon  the  coast.     T  was  vain; 
I  could  not  do  the  thing  I  would.     In  Spain 
The  fevered  life  I  scarce  had  hope  to  save 
Came  back  as  if  new-born,  as  if  the  grave 
That  was  so  near  had  taken  half  away 
Your  boyhood's  recollections.     Need  I  say 
Love  to  my  heart  came  easily?     I  yearned 
To  win  the  love  my  double  help  had  earned. 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

You  have  it  in  full  measure.     Now  at  last 

I  shall  know  all.     Is  this  to  end  that  past 

Of  doubts,  and  dreams,  and  fears?     Before  my  eyes, 

Lo !  as  you  speak,  faint  memories  arise. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.     Trust  them  not  wholly. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  I  Ve  a  vision  wild 

Of  ravening  seas ;  and  them  beyond,  a  child, 
I  live  again  glad  days.     I  seem  indeed 
Like  one  who,  waking  from  a  dream,  has  need 
To  piece  it  out  with  thinking.     Who  is  he  — 
A  stately  gentleman,  I  strive  to  see, 
And  cannot  clearly,  though  he  smiles  ?     Stay,  stay ! 
Was  that  my  father?     As  you  love  me,  say! 
Was  it  my  father  ?     Ah  !  so  much  is  dim ; 
But  that  has  substance.     Let  me  go  to  him  — 
Yes,  you  and  me  together.     I  can  hear 
How  he  will  thank  you. 


PHILIP    VERNON  55 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Wherefore  should  I   fear 

To  know  at  last  if  I  have  truly  read 
The  soul  I  trained? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Why  hesitate?     You  dread 

To  speak  some  truth  ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  You  do  not  ask  to  know 

Your  name  and  station? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Let  that  matter  go. 

Where  is  my  father? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Can  I  give  the  dead? 

PHILIP  VERNON.     Dead!     And  how  long  ago? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Two  years,  't  is  said. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     Dead  !     Two  years  dead  !     Know  you 
the  hour,  the  day? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.     I  know  them  not. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  And  I  may  have  been  gay, 

And  laughed,  or  diced,  the  hour  he  passed  away ! 

As  he  ceases,  the  priest,  who  has  watched  him  moodily, 
touches  his  arm  as  if  in  appeal,  whereupon  the  young 
man  exclaims: 

"  Nay,  do  not  speak.     How  very  often  here 
He  must  have  wandered,  and  when  death  drew  near 
Thought  of  this  son  in  heaven  !     Some  might  fear 
To  cheat  the  living  and  the  dead.     Despair 


56  PHILIP    VERNON 

Seems  but  a  thing  of  earth.     How  could  you  dare 
To  cast  its  shadow  on  a  world  beyond !  " 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE. 

My  more  than  child,  ah,  when  this  earthly  bond 
Of  love  is  severed,  surely  God  has  power 
To  heal  the  sorrows  of  earth's  little  hour. 

As  if  not  hearing  the  priest,  and  with  yet  more  of  anger, 
the  younger  man  continues: 

"  My  God !     Those  years  of  youth  when  I  in  Spain, 
And  he  in  England,  took  our  ignorant  pain 
To  God,  and  never  knew  what  statecraft  stole 
Of  nature's  honest  store  !     You  took  the  whole  — 
All,  all  of  love  two  lives  had !     By  my  soul, 
I  think  that  you  must  see  forevermore 
A  gray-haired  man  who  walks  beside  the  shore, 
And  of  the  silent  ocean  asks  his  dead !  " 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.     You  wrong  me,  Philip. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  No,  I  should  have  fled  — 

Oh,  long  ago  —  had  I  known  all,  but  now 
'T  is  past  the  cure  of  word  or  deed.     Ah,  how  — 
How  could  you  hurt  me  thus? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  I  did  God's  will  — 

His,  and  the  king's. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  The  king's  !     Could  he  fulfil 

What  home  and  father  would  have  given? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  My  son, 

Pray  you  consider.     Could  I  aught  have  done 
Against  the  king's  command?     I  did  not  dare. 


PHILIP    VERNON  57 

What  lack  you  else  the  gentle-born  should  bear? 
Head,  hand,  and  eye  have  had  such  anxious  care 
As  only  Spain  can  give.     What  English  peer 
Has  court  or  camp  trained  better?     Do  you  fear 
To  cross  a  sword  with  any?     Wrho,  I  ask, 
Can  match  you  mounted?     Mine  the  graver  task 
To  see  you  lack  not  learning.     Pause,  reflect; 
Not  without  prayer  I  acted.     You  suspect 
Some  treason?  —  Philip,  where  you  stand  to-day 
The  soil  is  yours.     That  castle  old  and  gray, 
The  river's  sweep,  hill,  forest,  town,  and  lake, 
In  God's  good  time  are  yours,  my  son,  to  take. 
See  where  yon  eagle  o'er  the  mountain  soars ! 
Scarce  can  he  look  beyond  what  land  is  yours. 
Set  foot  in  stirrup,  draw  your  father's  sword : 
A  thousand  men  will  follow  you,  my  lord ! 
Low  at  your  word  will  bow  that  tavern  churl, 
And  I  shall  bid  you  welcome,  my  Lord  Earl ! 

PHILIP    VERNON.     Earl!    Lord!     These    manors    mine? 
You  could  not  jest? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE. 

Not  I,  my  lord;  you  match  with  England's  best. 
The  proofs  that  give  you  these  the  Church  will  guard 
Till  one  proud  day  of  triumph  and  reward. 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

'T  is  a  strange  tale,  and  sad  as  it  is  strange. 
I  would  a  braver  love  had  bid  yo"u  change 
Those  home-reft  years  I  have  forever  lost. 
You  should  have  counted  well  the  cruel  cost, 
And  saved  my  life  this  pain.     Oh,  bitter  day! 


5  PHILIP   VERNON 

Vexed  with  a  convent  life,  made  next  to  play 
A  page's  part,  or  squire's,  left  to  say 
I  knew  not  who  I  was,  or  high  or  base, 
Until,  worn  out,  I  smote  a  snarling  face 
That  mocked  my  birth  as  knowing  some  disgrace ; 
For  text  of  thought  he  got  a  rapier  thrust. 
Alas !     I  gave  you  all  my  boyhood's  trust, 
And  thus  you  used  it ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Philip,  that  same  breath 

With  which  you  question  me,  I  gave;  the  death 
From  which  I  saved  you  set  a  silent  grave 
Between  the  lost  life  and  the  life  I  gave. 
You  have  a  father.     Have  I  seemed  to  be 
Less  than  a  father? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  None  were  that  to  me. 

I  have  been  hurt  enough:  't  were  well  to  spare 
These  convent  subtleties.     In  England  fair 
I  tread  where  men  are  free,  breathe  lighter  air. 
Much  have  I  learned  no  Spanish  cloister  taught, 
More  have  I  heard  that  Spain  had  never  thought. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE. 

Ill  have  you  heard.     Not  all  my  tale  is  told. 
Let  but  the  Church  her  lifting  hand  withhold, 
And  you  are  lost !     Be  her  true  son,  be  bold, 
And  these  broad  lands  are  yours  to  win  when  she 
Who  rules  this  kingdom  dies.     For  you,  for  me, 
The  path  lies  straight.     But  yestermorn  in  prayer 
I  asked  of  God  a  sign,  and  found  it  where 
At  close  of  eve  I  sat  and  saw  the  sun 
Set  in  a  sea  of  blood  ere  day  was  done  — 
A  cloud-born  cross  above.     Oh,  dark  shall  be 


PHILIP    VERNON  59 

The  Church's  reckoning  when  yon  loathing  sea 
Its  unrepentant  dead  spits  on  the  shore, 
And  the  long  torment  of  the  galley's  oar 
Shall   chain   the   souls   that   live !     What   seek   you 
more? 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

What  more  indeed !     I  went  your  way,  not  mine, 
Knew  but  one  prince,  sought  never  to  divine 
Your  reasons,  nor  the  policy  of  State 
That  without  explanation  ruled  my  fate. 
Answer  my  manhood  outright !     Be  more  true 
To  one  who  loves  you !     Give  me  all  love's  due. 
What  keeps  us  here?     I  will  not  be  denied. 
An  English  noble !     Wherefore  should  I  bide 
Upon  your  will  my  father's  lands  to  claim 
While  pope  and  king  play  out  a  doubtful  gam<?? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE. 

You  ask  untimely.  Shall  the  arrow  know 
The  stern  commission  of  the  bended  bow? 
In  God's  good  time  — 

PHILIP  VERNON.  The  hour  that  is,  is  good; 

No  other  answers.     Ah,  I  think  you  should 
Have  known  me  better.    Speak !    By  good  St.  James, 
I  'm  very  weary  of  these  priestly  games ! 
I  take  it  that,  as  well  as  one  can  see 
Through  this  dim,  wordy  haze  of  mystery, 
I  rest  mere  Philip  Vernon  until  death 
Strikes  with  your  hand,  or  mine;  Elizabeth. 
Is  that  your  meaning.  Father?     If  'tis  so, 
We  part  to-day.     Oh,  I  must  clearly  know 
What  the  cowl's  caution  hid  from  me.     Be  frank, 


60  PHILIP   VERNON 

As  you  were  wont.     Give  me  new  cause  to  thank 
The  man  within  the  priest. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Go,  if  you  will. 

If  God  and  king,  my  danger,  and  these  years 
Of  love  lack  force  to  teach  you  duty  still, 
Go !     Leave  me  here  to  peril  and  to  tears. 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

Love  is  not  bondage;  and,  for  that  harsh  king, 
I  owe  him  hate  alone. —  Oh,  do  not  wring 
My  heart  with  more  of  grief  !     Tell  me  the  tale 
Of  who  and  what  I  am.     There  cannot  fail 
To  be  some  light,  some  guidance,  some  poor  path 
Out  of  this  mystery  ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  The  Lord's  just  wrath 

Will  punish  this  revolt. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  I  do  not  change 

As  shifts  the  weather-vane !     Hold  you  it  strange 

I  should  learn  English  ways?  —  but  yesterday 

I  fell  to  talking  with  a  gallant  gay  — 

Upon  my  soul,  a  rare,  sweet  gentle  he, 

Hidalgo  born,  a  flower  of  chivalry, 

Simple  and  courteous,  melancholic  now, 

And  now  as  merry  as  a  May-day  queen, 

With  chat  of  court  and  camp  and  State,  a  brow 

Just  helmet-dinted,  o'er  an  eye  serene 

That  made  swift  capture  of  my  inward  thought 

Before  a  word  my  tardy  tongue  had  wrought. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  he !     We  talked  full  long 

Of  Spain  and  England,  of  what  cruel  wrong 

My  jailor  Philip  did,  and  soon  we  passed 


PHILIP   VERNON  6l 

To  speak  of  Spain's  Armada.     "  Now,"  at  last, 
"  Thank  God  for  war  !  "  he  cried.     "  The  die  is  cast ! 
And  you,  a  gentleman,  young  sir," —  to  me, — 
"  Sit  in  a  tavern  sad,  while  history 
Is  in  the  mighty  making."     Then  he  quaffed 
A  cup  of  wine.     "  Is  it  a  woman  ?  " —  laughed 
Because,  shame-flushed,  I,  angry,  answered  not. 
"  Pardon,"  he  added.     "  Cast  the  iron  lot 
Of  war,  and  take  with  us  the  splendid  chance. 
God  and  the  Queen,  a  sword,  a  horse,  a  lance ! 
Your  name,  fair  sir?"     I  could  but  hang  my  head. 
What  could  I  answer?     "  I  have  none,"  I  said. 
—  You  bade  me  hide  it,  you  were  well  obeyed. 
He  touched  my  shoulder  kindly :  "  Many  a  man 
Has  found  a  proud  name  where  the  red  blood  ran. 
Aimless  and  nameless?     Get  you  aim  and  name 
Where  two  great  nations  play  war's  royal  game. 
Come  with  me  on  the  morrow." 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  And  you  cried, 

Vade  Sathanas ! 

PHILIP  VERNON.         Nay,  I  naught  replied, 

Or  scarce  a  word.     By  Heaven,  I  had  been  right 
To  follow  loyally  that  gallant  knight 
Where  England  calls  her  sons ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  What,  must  I  fail 

For  this  boy- folly?  — You  shall  hear  the  tale  - 
Ay,  all  of  it  a  tender  heart  withheld 
To  give  more  gently  in  the  happier  hour 
God's  victory  will  bring.     Ah,  then  dispelled 
Were  half  its  anguish  ! 


62  PHILIP    VERNON 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Speak  !     I  have  the  power 

To  bear  life's  very  worst. 

HUGH   LANGMAYDE.  Is   this  the  lad 

I  saved  from  death  ?     Defiant,  reckless,  mad, 
You  ask  you  know  not  what. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  But  I  will  know, 

And  on  the  minute,  or  by  Heaven !  I  go 
To  claim  what  rights  are  mine. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Take  then  the  fate 

That  bides  for  him  who  does  not  know  to  wait 
On  God's  maturing  hour.     Alas,  poor  fool ! 
Art  nameless  ?     Yes  !     This,  on  my  oath  to  rule 
A  f  roward  nature,  by  the  rood  I  swear ! 
Didst  hear?  —  the  rood!     Thou  art  a  bastard  born! 
Art  fitly  answered?     Didst  thou  think  to  dare 
To  cross  my  purpose, —  thou,  a  child  of  scorn ! 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

What  fool's  device  is  this?     A  little  while 
I  was  my  lord,  am  now  a  bastard  vile. 
Another  man  this  pleasant  tale  should  rue 
All  the  brief  life  I  'd  leave  him. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Still,  't  is  true. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     By  Heaven,  thou  liest ! 
HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Have  I  ever  lied? 

PHILIP  VERNON.     God  knows,  not  I. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  I  should  have  naught  replied. 

A  priest,  and  lie !     It  seems  a  challenge  cheap. 


PHILIP    VERNON  63 

Tears  !  —  that  is  wiser.     Oh,  I  did  but  keep 
My  better  tidings  back.     Alas,  no  friend 
Could  hide  this  ill  news  long,  or  know  to  mend 
A  wrong  of  birth ;  but  when,  in  God's  good  time, 
Your  arm  has  freed  a  land,  and  yonder  chime 
Rings  in  our  king,  rings  out  this  fated  Queen, 
Then  she  who  owns  this  broad  domain  has  seen 
Her  last  of  greatness. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Who? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Your  cousin, —  she, 

Your  father's  heir,  your  steward  now  till  we 
Win  Philip's  battle,  and  his  potent  hand 
Strikes    from   your    shield    the    bastard's    shameful 

band, 

Gives  all  I  promised,  honor,  wealth,  and  place, — 
All  that  men  covet  in  this   earthly  race. 
Go !     I  have  done.     Think  on  it  for  the  week 
We  linger  here.     Be  prudent,  slow  to  speak, 
Watchful  and  wise.     God's  hand  is  on  the  helm, 
And  I,  the  Church,  the  King,  this  woeful  realm, 
Will  need  your  help. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  I  would  that  I  could  doubt 

One  who  has  never  lied.     I  stand  without 
The  pale  of  honor  and  the  hopes  of  men, 
A  nameless  creature,  bred  to  turn  again 
And  rend  the  race  that  gave  me,  with  this  stain, 
Intrepid  honor,  proud  desires, —  in  fine, 
The  manly  virtues  of  a  noble  line. 
Poor  useless  jewels!  all  in  vain  their  worth. 
I  had  been  happier  made  of  meaner  earth. 


64  PHILIP    VERNON 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE. 

Nay,  nay;  but  that's  not  so.     Land,  title,  place, 
Are  yours  to  gain  when,  by  God's  helping  grace, 
That  Spanish  dagger  at  your  side  strikes  quick. 
Oh,  I  can  see  —  can  see  this  heretic 
Roll  bloody  in  the  dust,  and  hear  the  land 
Ring  joy  from  spire  to  spire ! 

PHILIP  VERNON.  I  understand 

At  last  too  well.     No  more  for  me  the  prayer 
To  be  delivered  from  temptation's  snare. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.     Sad  words,  my  son  ! 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Yet  heed  them  well:  they  say 

The  malice  of  dishonor.     If  I  prey 
Like  maggots  on  the  carcass  whose  decay 
Begot  my  baseness,  who  shall  blame  the  banned? 
What  would'st  thou  of  me?     Is  it  head  or  hand? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE. 

How  beautiful  the  evening  is !     Behold 

The  dim,  green  meadows  take  the  dewy  gold, 

While  in  the  hollows  little  pools  of  mist 

Are  gathering  slowly  where  the  cattle  list 

The  milky  summons  of  the  twilight  horn. 

Look !     'T  is  your  heritage !     Some  men  are  born 

Ignobly  great;  some  in  one  matchless  hour 

Scale  at  a  bound  the  heights  of  human  power. 

PHILIP- VERNON. 

A  bastard  lord !     Not  I !     Awhile  ago 
You  took  from  life  its  beauty  and  its  glow. 
How  could  you  mock  my  fancies  with  a  tale 


PHILIP    VERNON  65 

Such  as  my  boyhood  dreamed,  and  let  it  fail 

In  such  a  slough  of  shame?     Love,  honor,  hope  — 

You  took  them  all,  and  offer  now  a  rope ! 

'T  is  kind !     I  was  a  man,  and  you  have  made 

A  fiend  of  whom  you  well  might  be  afraid 

If  you  had  lied. —  You  could  not. —  Take  me!     Use 

My  strength,  my  will,  my  hate,  as  you  may  choose. 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.     There  's  time  to  think. 
PHILIP  VERNON.  Not  I!     What  next? 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Wilt  swear? 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

Ay,  for  an  oath  is  only  empty  air. 
Once  't  was  a  thing  to  spend  a  life  for.     I 
Am  but  a  hireling  now  mere  gold  may  buy, 
Or  any  Judas  coin. 

As  Philip  speaks  he  makes  a  move  as  if  to  go,  but,  of 
a  sudden  returning,  looks  the  priest  steadily  in  the  face, 
and  with  a  troubled  countenance  says  to  him : 

"  One  word  to  close 

An  hour  the  damned  might  pity.     I  suppose  — 
—  There  was  a  mother  — 

—  Well?" 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Long,  long  ago 

Your  mother  died. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  'T  is  all  I  care  to  know. 

Loved,  sinned,  and  died !    May  God's  sweet  pity  rest 


66  PHI-LIP    VERNON 

Upon  the  shameless  woman  from  whose  breast 
I  drew  the  milk  of  sorrows ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Sleep  and  prayer 

Will  bring  you  peace,  yet  leave  you  power  to  dare 
A  deed  with  which  the  world  shall  ring.    Good-night. 
In  three  days  I  return  again.     To  right 
Your  pathway  lies  toward  the  inn.     Invite 
No  comment.     Guard  yourself.     Good-night. 

As  the  priest  moves  away  Philip  Vernon  replies  tardily: 

"  Good-night. 
What  night  is  good  to  me  ?     Alas,  what  day  ? " 


THE  GARDEN 

Walking  slowly  away,  Philip  Vernon  takes  his  sadness 
deeper  into  the  woods,  and  wandering  far,  comes  at  last 
to  a  great  garden  wall.  There  he  stays  awhile,  until 
sweet  odors,  rising,  seem  to  call  him;  and  with  no  more 
thought  of  what  may  lie  beyond,  he  leaps  the  wall,  and 
stands  amid  the  flowers,  waist-deep  in  hollyhock  and 
golden  plume. 

"  I  wonder  somewhat  was  my  life  then  gay 
When  here  I  chased  the  butterflies,  and  trod 
These  garden  lanes,  or  rolled  upon  the  sod, 
A  thoughtless  boy  ?    I  '11  take,  for  memory's  sake, 
One  rose  of  home." 

Hither  into  the  garden  at  this  moment  comes  Lord 
Francis  Grey,  in  red  velvet,  with  a  face  aflame  to  match. 


PHILIP    VERNON  67 

Seeing  this  gallant  across  a  hedge  of  sweet-peas,  he  slips 
the  collar  of  his  humor  and  sets  it  on  to  bite  in  this  wise : 

"  Ho !  Who  are  you  who  break 
These  castle  bounds  at  will?  Ho  there!  Take  heed! 
Didst  hear  me?  " 

PHILIP  VERNON.         Yes.     Your  words,  I  think,  exceed 
The  owner's  power  to  back  his  tongue  at  need. 

LORD  GREY. 

My  cousin  is  the  chancellor's  ward;  none  dare 
Avenge  an  insult  here. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Then  wiser  't  were 

To  keep  the  tongue  in  ward.     You  question  one 
That  hath  lost  touch  of  fear  beneath  the  sun. 
The  chancellor?  What  care  I?  Your  cousin?  Mine? 
Now,  why  not  mine?     Suppose,  to  cap  the  jest, 
We  fight  for  cousinship:  who  wins  is  best. 
And  is  she  fair,  this  woman?    Doth  her  talk, 
Like  thine,  lack  breeding?    This  smooth  garden  walk 
Is  broad  enough  to  serve  us.    Draw,  on  guard ! 
And  let  my  rapier  teach  your  tongue  such  ward 
As  hasty  manners  lack. 

LORD  GREY.  Have  then  your  will ! 

Or  mad  or  foolish,  you  're  a  man  to  kill ! 
Yet  to  cross  blades  with  one  unknown  or  base  — 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

Base !     By  my  soul !     Were  you  his  very  Grace, 
This  same  lord  chancellor,  his  mighty  face 
Should  know  my  glove ! 


68  PHILIP   VERNON 

Lord  Grey,  having  already  drawn  his  sword,  advances 
and  lunges  smartly  at  Philip,  at  the  same  time  crying  out : 

"  By  Heaven,  you  are  dead !  " 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

A  thing,  observe,  less  easily  done  than  said. 
A  step  more  near,  a  trifle  yet  more  quick, 
And  you  had  boasted  shrewdly.     Oh,  the  trick 
Is  stale.    In  Spain  we  lunge  this  wise,  and  then 
A  thrust  in  tierce  —  Well  parried  !  —  good,  again  ! 
I  take  it  firmly  close  to  hilt;  the  wrist 
Well  up;  then  deftly,  with  this  cunning  twist, 
Give  point.     Your  sword-arm  ?    By  the  Cid,  't  is  sad  ! 
That  stops  the  sport. 

LORD  GREY.  'T  is  not  so  very  bad 

But  that  a  day  will  cure  it. 

At  this  he  sees  men  break  through  the  shrubbery  and 
come  running  toward  them,  whereon  he  says  to  Philip: 

"  Get  you  gone ! 
There,  by  the  terrace,  and  across  the  lawn." 

PHILIP  VERNON.     And  wherefore? 

LORD  GREY.  Hasten,  leap  the  brook  and  fly ! 

As  Philip  stands  with  no  mind  to  escape,  the  steward 
and  many  servants  gather  around  them. 

STEWARD. 

What  means  this  brawl?    My  lady  asks,  not  I. 


PHILIP    VERNON  69 

LORD  GREY. 

T  is  but  a  trifle.    Come  with  me.    The  blame 

I  shall  stand  father  to.     This  way.     The  dame?  — 

STEWARD.     Is  in  the  eastern  gallery. 

LORD  GREY.  Best  it  were 

You  tarry  here  awhile.     My  cousin  fair 
Has  many  humors :  which  shall  be  our  share 
No  man  has  skill  to  tell.     Her  No,  or  Yes, 
A  hundred  years'  experience  could  not  guess. 

With  these  words  Lord  Grey  leaves  Philip  Vernon  at  the 
entrance  of  the  castle,  where,  with  sudden  interest  in  his 
face,  he  looks  about  him,  and  at  last  says: 

"  How  most  familiar  't  is !     There  the  great  hall, 

The  windowed  gallery,  and  on  the  wall 

The  gray  stone  dial.     There  the  poplars  tall. 

Now,  as  I  live,  the  willows  and  the  brook ! 

And  there  my  father  sat  the  while  I  took 

His  great  horse  o'er  it  —  much  I  feared  the  leap. 

How  memory  wakens  as  if  from  a  sleep ! 

The  stair  !    Sir  Lancelot's  armor  !    That  brave  lance 

Lord  Arthur  carried  to  the  wars  in  France. 

One  night  I  touched  it  —  on  the  floor  it  crashed, 

And  the  fierce  strife  of  Crecy  round  me  clashed 

With  din  of  spear  and  steel,  and  shock  and  blow, 

And  clang  of  knights  that  set  my  heart  aglow." 

A  SERVANT. 

My  lady  bids  me  say  for  her,  Sir  Knight, 
She  waits  you  in  the  gallery.     Here,  to  right. 


7°  PHILIP   VERNON 

Philip  Vernon  enters  the  picture-gallery,  and  sees  at  the 
far  end  Elizabeth  Vernon  speaking  with  Lord  Grey. 

LORD  GREY.     The  errant  knight  waits  yonder. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Let  him  wait ; 

T  is  a  man's  business.     Now,  I  pray  you,  state 
What  means  this  quarrel? 

LORD  GREY.  Ask  of  yonder  man. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Man  !    Why  not  gentle,  cousin  ?     Never  ran 
Mean  blood  in  one  like  him,  who  there,  at  ease, 
In  courteous  silence  stands.     Now,  an  you  please, 
What  more,  my  lord? 

LORD  GREY.  I  found  the  man  you  see 

A-picking  roses  'neath  your  balcony. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Why,  this  should  hang  him  on  the  nearest  tree ! 
And  my  blunt  cousin  picked,  for  company, 
A  quarrel.     That  is  easier  than  a  rose. 
He  found  a  thorn,  as  rather  plainly  shows 
That  crimsoned  sleeve. 

LORD  GREY.  Now  look  you,  Cousin  Bess. 

Your  jest  is  but  ill-timed.     Let  me  confess 
I  made  this  quarrel  when,  my  heart  aflame, 
You  left  me  stinging  with  your  words.     The  blame 
Is  yours,  fair  cousin.     Shafts  in  anger  sent 
May  find  mad  errands  ere  their  force  be  spent. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.     Now,  by  our  Lady ! 


PHILIP   VERNON  7* 

LORD  GREY.  Nay,  but  hear  me  still ; 

And  let  your  servants  know  at  least  your  will 
That  yonder  venturer  go  on  his  way, 
And  no  such  words  escape  as  haply  may 
Breed  risks  for  me. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  I  shall  consider  first 

When  I  have  questioned  him,  nor  shall  the  worst 
Be  worse,  my  lord,  than  what  has  chanced.     You 

claim 

Such  license  here  as  men  may  justly  blame. 
Best  choose  a  fitter  place,  a  feebler  prey, 
To  hawk  at  with  your  anger. 

At  this  Lord  Grey,  turning  to  one  side,  mutters  to  himself 
as  he  glances  down  the  hall  at  Philip : 

"  He  shall  pay 

His  debt  and  yours,  my  lady.     Those  who  court 
Tongue-tilts  with  wounded  creatures,  find  the  sport 
A  doubtful  venture.     '  By  the  Cid,'  he  swore ; 
Mocked  me  with  Spanish  sword-play.     Ah  !  my  score 
Is  easily  settled." 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.     You  are  silent,  sir? 

LORD  GREY. 

I  school  my  hurt  heart  to  soft  words,  for  her 
Whose  lightest  word  my  very  blood  can  stir; 
And  if  in  aught  I  have  exceeded,  rest 
Assured  I  meant  it  not.     Were  it  not  best 
I  set  this  errant  knight  without  your  gate? 


72  PHILIP    VERNON 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

No.     I  would  speak  with  him.     Pray  do  not  wait : 
My  temper  's  of  the  shortest.     On  your  way 
Send  me  the  gentleman ;  and,  cousin,  stay !  — 
I  '11  have  no  gossip. 

Lord  Grey,  sullenly  walking  down  the  hall,  pauses  beside 
Philip  Vernon: 

"  We  shall  meet  again  ! 

My  lady  waits.    And  for  those  tricks  of  Spain 

I  shall  be  readier.    Good-day." 

PHILIP  VERNON.  T'  is  plain 

I  was  imprudent. 

As  he  moves  up  the  hall  toward  Elizabeth  Vernon,  she 
watches  him,  speaking  to  herself  the  while: 

"  Where  saw  I  those  eyes, 

Large,  gray,  and  watchful?    Some  elate  surprise 
Is  in  their  gaze. 

I  pray  you  pardon  us 

This  most  uncourteous  hour.     It  is  not  thus 
We  welcome  unknown  comers.     I  have  heard 
You  would  be  nameless:  so  is  every  bird 
That  wings  my  garden.    And  't  is  said  you  stole 
A  rose  or  two.     If  that  be  all  —  the  whole 
Of  this  last  hour's  sin  —  I  hold  you  shriven; 
Ay,  and  that  lesson  to  a  fool  forgiven." 

PHILIP  VERNON.     I  thank  you,  madam. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Am  I,  sir,  a  book, 

That  you  would  read  me  with  that  eager  look? 


PHILIP   VERNON  73 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

Oft  have  I  read  you.     I  am  wont  to  share 
My  idle  hours  with  you. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Indeed,  sir? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Where 

The  chase  o'erhangs  your  garden,  oft  I  sit 
And  read  you  page  by  page,  nor  want  I  wit 
To  comment  on  your  sweetness. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  You  are  bold 

Past  nurtured  manners. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Pardon  me,  I  told 

But  half  my  heart  says. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Sir,  an  hour  ago 

We  were  but  strangers. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Ere  the  sand  shall  flow 

Another  hour,  we  shall  be  strange  once  more, 
And  ever  strange. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Is  this  some  Quixote,  mad, 

That  loved  and  lost,  and  cannot  live  it  o'er? 
—  By  all  the  saints,  I  think  it  very  sad 
To  see  good  wits  astray. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Are  mine  astray? 

It  seems  they  wandered  wisely.     Let  them  say 
What  saner  wits  would  shun.     The  shyest  maid 
That  ever  loved,  and,  loving,  grew  afraid, 
Would  braver  be  to  set  her  love  in  words. 
Mine  hath  uncertain  wings,  like  new-born  birds, 
And  may  not  think  on  heaven.     Forgive,  forget ! 


74  PHILIP   VERNON 

Think  me  a  lover  wild  of  brain,  once  met 
In  some  freaked  tale  of  eld  —  a  prince  of  fay 
That  came,  and  loved,  and  lost,  and  rode  away. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.     That 's  a  wild  riddle. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Time  owns  not  the  hour 

Shall  give  some  buds  the  answer  of  a  flower. 
You  have  been  very  gentle  with  a  man 
Who  dare  not  name  himself,  who  never  can 
Do  more  than  thank  your  kindness.     I  am  one 
Accursed  and  nameless  till  my  days  be  done. 
How  you  have  helped  me  you  may  never  know, 
Nor  what  you  saved  us  both.     I  came  your  foe; 
More  than  your  friend  I  leave.    Just  Heaven  knows 
How  sad  my  life  has  been.     Let  this  one  rose 
I  took   for  —  well,  no  matter  —  let  me  guard 
This  rose  for  memory.     It  will  make  less  hard 
The  strife  of  days  to  come. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  You  speak  like  one 

By  some  strange  cruelty  of  fate  undone. 
Be  plain. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     I  may  not  further. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Then  take  hence 

A  woman's  prayer  for  peace.     There  's  no  offence. 
In  honest  words,  and  none  did  ever  speak 
Words  that  more  sadly  touched  me.     I  am  weak 
Where  women  should  be.     There  's  no  need  to  say 
'T  is  but  mere  weakness.     Must  you,  then,  away? 


PHILIP   VERNON  75 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

I  dare  not  —  must  not  —  linger.     Here  to  stay 

Were  to  tempt  folly.    Ah,  you  may  divine 

All  that  my  honor  bids  my  heart  resign. 

So  fades  another  dream.     Alack  !  alack  ! 

Dreams  are  but  dreams  —  we  may  not  dream  them 

back. 

Take  you  an  exile's  thanks.     This  gracious  hour 
Shall  live  remembered. 

As  he  walks  away,  Elizabeth  Vernon  whispers  to  herself: 

"  Still  those  eyes  have  power 
To  tease  dull  memory  with  some  strange  surmise. 
And  trouble  expectation." 

Philip,  walking  down  the  gallery  and  seeing  the  portraits 
on  the  walls,  stops  abruptly;  whereupon  Elizabeth  Ver 
non  adds : 

"  What  surprise 
So  moves  this  stranger?  " 

PHILIP  VERNON.  There  's  the  Lady  Blanche, 

That  held  the  castle ;  there  the  baron  stanch, 
Who  rode  to  battle  laughing.     Am  I  heir, 
Through  him,  of  that  mad  merriment  I  share 
When  swords  are  out  and  death  is  in  the  air? 
My  father's  face  !     So  gracious  too ! —  by  Heaven  ! 
Now  I  can  say,  "  Be  all  thy  sin  forgiven !  " 
And  thank  the  gentle  hand  that  swept  away 
The  desperate  counsels  of  a  darker  day. 

For  a  moment  he  stands  before  the  portrait,  and  then 
goes  slowly  down  the  gallery,  and  leaves  the  castle. 


76  PHILIP    VERNON 


THE  CHASE 

Two  days  later,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  summer  day, 
Philip  Vernon  walks  here  and  there  in  the  great  forest, 
and  at  last,  leaning  against  a  tree,  speaks  thus  to  himself : 

"  How  wearily  the  hours  go  by  !     This  chase 
I  haunt,  as  haunts  a  bird  the  lonely  place 
That  holds  her  pillaged  nest." 

Seeing  him  of  a  sudden,  Elizabeth  Vernon  comes  timidly 
through  the  thickets. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  I  thought,  Sir  Knight, 

You  had  been  far  from  this.     I  would  quick  flight 
Had  set  you  miles  away.     I  more  than  fear 
My  cousin's  treachery.     What  keeps  you  here 
Is  much  in  question,  and  in  days  of  war 
The  questioned  man  is  lost.     You  should  be  far 
From  this  to-morrow. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Not  while  dangers  grow 

So  thick  about  one  frail  old  man. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  I  know 

Of  you,  of  him,  no  more  than  what  I  hear 
From  one  who  hates  you,  yet  enough  to  fear 
For  you  such  peril  as  may  cost  too  dear 
Some  woman-heart  at  home. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Ah,  there  are  none 

Will  weep  for  me.     Of  all  that  live  not  one. 
As  alien  ships  that  only  meet  to  part, 


PHILIP    VERNON  77 

Thy  life  and  mine  have  crossed  on  stormy  seas. 
Learn  to  forget.     'T  is  a  most  wholesome  art. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

An  art  that  women  practise  with  less  ease 
Than  men. 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

There  's  time  to  learn  it,  for  no  more 
Shall  we  two  meet. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.     No  more  ! 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Dear  heart,  no  more. 

I  said  forget.     How  could  I  say  forget? 
No,  rather  let  some  shadow  of  regret 
Still  haunt  thy  better  fortunes  in  glad  hours 
When  Spring  is  come  again,  and  with  her  flowers 
Arise  frail  memories  and  thoughts  long  dumb, 
That  are  the  wildings  of  the  mind,  and  come 
With  Nature's  yearning  season. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Hush  !  I  heard 

Steps  in  the  wood. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  No,  not  a  leaf  has  stirred. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

I  am  grown  fearful.     If  you  would  but  go 
While  the  near  hour  is  gracious  — 

PHILIP  VERNON.  No;  ah,  no! 

Not  for  the  bribe  of  love. 


7  PHILIP    VERNON 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  If,  sir,  you  loved, 

My  prayer  were  quickly  answered.   You  'd  be  moved, 
And  fly. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     You  will  not  ask  it.    Those  proud  eyes 
Would  turn  with  scorn  from  him  whose  honor  dies. 
Men  call  me  traitor:  but,  my  lady  fair, 
That  died  in  me  when  all  of  my  despair 
I  cast  before  your  feet.     What  mercy  lies 
In  the  sweet  equity  of  honest  eyes 
I  gladly  trust. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.    Thank  Heaven,  I  know  not,  sir, 
What  sad  temptation  may  have  bid  you  err. 
I  would  not  —  will  not  —  know.     Do  you  forget 
I  suffer  while  you  linger  here? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  And  yet 

I  cannot  go.  I  would  we  had  not  met, 
Or  God  had  given  to  me  a  kinder  fate, 
A  less  uncertain  birth,  a  nobler  state. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Uncertain,  said  you? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Yes,  I  said  it  —  yes. 

For  that  time  has  no  comfort,  no  redress, 
And  you  are  worlds  away.     But  here,  alone, 
Once  let  me  speak.     The  falcon  love  has  flown 
Where  the  proud  instinct  of  his  haughty  wings 
Takes  love  that  soars.    Beneath  it  earth's  mean  things 
Grow  half  unreal,  and  the  morning  rings 
With  new-born  light  his  world  of  wish  and  will. 
I  love  you  —  love  you.     Be  it  well  or  ill, 


PHILIP    VERNON  79 

Still  shall  I  love  you.     None  may  ever  doubt 
Hope's  dying  words.     Alas !  my  treason  's  out. 
Oh,  traitor  heart ! 


Elizabeth  Vernon  looks  at  Philip,  and  of  a  sudden  seating 
herself  upon  a  fallen  tree,  covers  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  is  silent  for  a  moment. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  You  will  not  speak? 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Wait,  wait! 

—  My  God,  I  love  him  ! —  Sir,  as  sad  a  fate 
As  yours  will  make  my  life  and  land  the  prize 
Of  some  debt-burdened  noble. —  It  were  wise 
We  part  at  once. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  At  once! 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Be  merciful ! 

Go  while  my  blinded  sight  with  tears  is  dull. 
You  have  been  cruel.     Ah,  I  cannot  see 
For  tears  of  pity  both  for  you  and  me. 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

And  have  I  wounded  you,  my  gentle  dove? 
That  were  most  sad  of  all,  to  hurt  with  love. 
I  have  done  wrong  — 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Yes  —  no  !     Would  you  were  spared 
This  most  unhappy  fortune! 


80  PHILIP    VERNON 

As  she  ceases,  Lord  Grey  comes  abruptly  into  the  open 

space,  and  cries  out : 

"  Neatly  snared ! 

'T  is  well  I  chanced  to  come.     And  have  you  dared, 
A  maid,  a  Vernon,  thus  to  blot  our  fame, 
My  mother's  lineage?     Go!     Go,  take  your  shame 
Where  shame  is  common.     Off  with  you  !     Fie  !  fie  ! 
Have  you  no  blushes?     For  this  masking  spy, 
Who  lured  you  hither  — " 

PHILIP  VERNON.  By  my  soul,  you  die ! 

They  draw  their  swords  as  Hugh  Langmayde,  in  haste 
coming  through  the  wood,  steps  between  them. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     Out  of  my  path ! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE. 

No  !  no  !     In  God's  name,  peace  ! 
The  Church  forbids  you. 

Lord  Grey  falls  back,  sheathes  his  sword,  and  says: 

"  Easy  't  is  to  cease 

When  finer  nets  are  spread.  A  priest,  indeed! 
And  thus  disguised.  In  truth,  it  seems  decreed 
My  double  debt  shall  wait. —  You,  madam,  need 
No  further  words  from  me.  Begone  with  speed !  " 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.     Oh,  for  one  hour  to  be  a  man ! 

LORD  GREY.  True,  true  ! 

That  had  been  better.     There  were  less  to  rue. 


PHILIP    VERNON  l 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

I  shall  be  surely  man  enough  for  two; 

And  you,  whose  tongue  is  quicker  than  your  blade, 

Shall  lack  no  lesson. 

Lord  Grey  stands  smiling,  while  Hugh  Langmayde  seizes 
Philip  by  the  arm,  and,  drawing  him  away,  says  to  him: 

"  Why  have  you  delayed  ? 
I  waited  long.     'T  is  like  we  are  betrayed. 
Lose  not  a  minute;  and  if  fall  of  night 
Find  me  not  with  you  at  the  ford,  take  flight : 
I  shall  be  dead.     Now  God  protect  the  right !  " 

Philip  cries  to  Elizabeth  Vernon  as  he  follows  the  priest: 
"  I  may  not  wait.     Heaven  keep  you  !  " 

Then,  turning  to  Lord  Grey,  says  haughtily,  and  with  a 
bow: 

"  We  shall  meet." 
LORD  GREY. 

Yes,  where  the  gallows  makes  revenge  complete. 

With  these  words  he  walks  swiftly  away,  while  the  priest 
and  Philip  hurry  through  the  wood  in  the  opposite  direc 
tion,  leaving  Elizabeth  Vernon,  who  for  a  time  stands 
still  in  the  deepening  shadows,  and  looks  along  the  path 
where  her  lover  has  gone. 


82  PHILIP    VERNON 


THE  FORD 

After  dusk  Philip  Vernon,  having  waited  long  at  the 
appointed  ford,  begins  to  walk  to  and  fro  uneasily,  and 
says: 

"  How  long  he  tarries !     I  have  that  to  say 
Will  sorely  hurt  him;  and  yet,  chance  what  may, 
This  treason  ends.     Who's  there?" 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  Come  !     We  are  gone  ! 

Lost  men,  I  fear.     The  wood,  the  wood !    Ere  dawn 
We  must  be  far  from  this.     One  feeble  fool 
Upon  the  rack  betrayed  us.     Oh,  that  school 
Makes  ready  scholars !     Death  is  close  at  hand. 

As  they  leave  the  shore,  the  sound  of  men-at-arms  comes 
from  above  and  below,  and  always  nearing  them. 

"  All  ways  are  closed.     O  sad,  unhappy  land, 
That  was  so  near  deliverance !    Here,  my  son, 
Take  this,  and  go." 

The  priest,  fainting  and  in  haste,  gives  to  Philip  a  packet. 

"  My  earthly  course  is  run." 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

I  will  not  leave  you.     Quick !     The  garden  gate 
I  saw  wide  open.     Come ! 

The  old  man,  helped,  hurries  through  the  chase.  As 
they  cross  an  open  space  near  the  garden,  the  moon 
comes  out,  and  from  a  thicket  the  flash  of  steel  is  seen, 
and  the  red  blaze  of  half  a  dozen  musquetoons.  The 


PHILIP    VERNON  83 

priest  stumbles,  and  groans;  men  run  forth,  and,  falling 
on  Philip  and  his  companion,  stab  the  priest,  who  falls 
within  the  arched  and  open  gateway  of  the  garden  of  the 
castle,  crying: 

"  Too  late,  too  late ! 
Curse  on  the  heretic  !     Fly,  Philip  !  " 

PHILIP  VERNON.  No! 

Not  I,  by  Heaven ! 

And,  standing  within  the  gateway,  he  cries  fiercely  as  he 
fights : 

"  This  for  your  coward  blow, 

You  this  for  vengeance,  and  you  this,  and  go 

To  hell  that  spawned  you !  " 

As  with  cries  and  shouts  the  men  fall  back,  there  is  a 
brief  pause,  while  Lord  Grey  comes  forward,  sword  in 
hand. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Have  a  care,  my  lord! 

The  place  is  somewhat  narrow,  and  the  sward 
Gives  but  ill  footing.     Neither  can  I  spare 
To  teach  you  tricks  of  fence  to-day.     Beware ! 
Habet !     You  have  it.     Yes,  this  under-thrust 
Is  deadly  dangerous.     Never  put  your  trust 
In  that  weak  parry  —  traitor  !  coward  !  take 
This  for  my  love !  this  for  that  old  man's  sake ! 

As  Lord  Grey  staggers  and  falls,  he  cries  to  those  about 
him: 

"  In  on  him  !  seize  him !   Quick,  the  gate,  the  wall !  " 


84  PHILIP    VERNON 

Philip  again  attacks  the  men  who  are  nearest,  and  as 
they  give  way,  retreating,  he  shuts  the  gate.  Then, 
kneeling,  he  lifts  the  priest's  head,  and  exclaims: 

"  Ye  saints,  he  's  dead  !     Now  let  what  may  befall ; 
No  worse  can  come  to  me." 

As  Philip  bends  over  the  priest,  he  hears  him  groan  and 
mutter : 

"  Strike  sure  !     You  swore  — 
Kill,  kill  the  heretic !  " 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Alas! 

HUGH  LANGMAYDE.  There  's  more, — 

Christ,  for  a  minute's  life  to  speak !     I  said 
Of   her  —  your   mother  —  something  — 

But  even  as  the  words  are  on  his  lips  the  priest's  head 
drops,  and  he  dies. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  He  is  dead! 

God  pity  me,  I  loved  him.    Wrong  or  right, 
I  loved  him  well.     Christ  rest  his  soul  to-night. 

As  he  rises  he  hears  voices  and  shots,  and,  instantly 
turning,  flies  through  the  shrubbery  until,  bewildered, 
he  comes  upon  a  doorway  in  the  side  wall  of  the  castle, 
and,  in  the  darkness  stumbling  in  haste  upon  a  narrow 
stairway,  opens  a  door  cautiously,  and  enters  the  chapel 
of  the  castle. 

"  Ye  saints  be  praised !  for  I  am  well-nigh  spent, 
And  here  's  a  little  respite,  heaven-sent." 


PHILIP   VERNON  85 

Breathing    fast   and   hard,    he    sinks    exhausted   on    the 
chancel  step. 

"  The  only  friend  I  had  this  evening  died ; 
I  would  to  God  that  I  were  by  his  side ! 
But  the  mere  brute  in  us  will  show  his  teeth : 
I  fought  as  if  all  life  were  glad. —  Beneath 
This  cross  a  child  I  knelt." 

Of  a  sudden  he  leaps  up  at  sight  of  one  coming  through 
the  darkness. 

"  Speak,  or  you  die  !  " 
ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Mother  of  mercy  !     It  is  I !  't  is  I ! 

I  thought  you  slain. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  I  have  one  friend  the  less. 

They've  killed  my  only  father;  none  may  guess 
My  utter  loneliness. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  I  hear  men's  feet. 

Get  you  behind  the  altar. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Kiss  me,  sweet; 

That  will  make  death  seem  easy. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Go,  make  haste  ! 

He  obeys,  and  Elizabeth  Vernon  falls  on  her  knees  be 
fore  the  crucifix. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Oh,  Mary  Mother,  pitiful  and  chaste! 
Save  !  save  him  ! 


86  PHILIP   VERNON 

Here  comes  in  hot  haste  the  steward,  with  men-at-arms 
and  the  Queen's  officers. 

STEWARD.  Peace  !     She  prays  ! 

The  Lady  Elizabeth  rising,  he  says,  as  he  comes  forward : 

"  We  seek  in  vain 
The  dead  man's  traitor  comrade." 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Well,  't  is  plain 

He  hides  not  here.     Search  you  the  river-banks; 
The  hills  beyond  the  chase.     He  shall  have  thanks 
Who  finds  this  Spanish  ruffler.     Go  !  make  haste  ! 
These  ducats  for  his  capture.     See  you  waste 
No  time  about  the  castle.     Shall  it  hap 
This  Spanish  fox  would  seek  so  plain  a  trap? 

Upon  this  the  steward  and  men  leave  the  chapel,  and  as 
the  noise  fades  away  Philip  Vernon  comes  forward. 

PHILIP  VERNON.     Right  bravely  done  ! 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  God  guard  you  ! 

At  this  Philip  Vernon  gives  her  that  packet  the  priest 
had  given  him,  and,  much  troubled,  says : 

"  Here  is  this 

Sits  heavy  on  my  conscience.     Ere  I  miss 
Thy  dear  face,  take  it ;  for  I  have  no  mind 
To  carry  treason.     Should  you  chance  to  find 
Aught  that  may  ruin  men,  I  pray  of  you 
Destroy  it ;  burn  it." 


PHILIP    VERNON  87 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Why  not  wait  to  view 

What  costs  a  minute?     You  have  that  to  spare. 
This  altar-lamp  suffices.     Rest  you  there. 
Some  one  might  enter  on  us  unaware. 

As  she  opens  the  packet  and  reads  therein  a  -great  sur 
prise  possesses  her. 

"  This   holds    no   treason ;    none !     Where    got   you 

these? 

The  Vernon  arms  ?  —  a  locket  ?  —  mysteries 
That  much  concern  me." 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Answer  I  have  none. 

The  good  priest  gave  me  these  ere  life  was  done. 
I  thought  them  dangerous. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Letters  out  of  Spain ! 

The  King's  grave  attestation.     Still  in  vain 
I  tax  my  cunning.     Who  are  you  that  brought 
This  tale  of  wonder? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Madam,  I  was  taught 

To  call  myself  plain  Philip  Vernon.     I 
Was  that  in  Spain. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  You  Philip  Vernon  !     Try 

To  tell  me  more.     Is  it  indeed  of  you 
What  I  find  written  here?     Is  —  is  it  true? 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

How  can  I  know?     The  Jesuit,  flying,  found 
A  tired  boy-swimmer  floating  as  if  drowned, 
And  kept  him  all  these  years  in  Spain. 


88 


PHILIP    VERNON 


ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Think.     Strive 

Some  memory  of  childhood  to  revive. 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

Ah,  but  what  matters  it  to  me?     They  bring 
No  happy  fortune.     What  am  I?     A  thing 
The  sea  refused  to  bury,  which  that  priest 
Caught  for  mere  pity  ere  it  died  —  the  least, 
Ay,  least  of  men  am  I.     A  waif  forlorn. 
Only  in  name  a  Vernon.     I  have  borne 
That  old  man's  silence  long,  till  he  of  late 
Cursed  me  with  knowledge  of  my  bastard  fate, 
To  use  my  anguish  in  a  desperate  game  — 
For  what  cared  I,  the  unreckoned  child  of  shame? 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

A  bastard!  bastard!     No,  my  lord;  the  pride 

Of  twenty  earls  is  in  your  veins.     He  lied 

Who  told  you  that.     Look  !  look  !  these  papers  !  See  ! 

I  am  the  heir  no  longer;  you  are  he. 

Philip  staggers  back  against  a  marble  effigy  of  a  boy  on 
a  tomb  just  behind  him,  and  cries  out: 

"  Christ    help    me !     How    I    loved    him !     Yet    he 

swore  — 

Swore  by  the  rood  !   A  priest !   The  rood  !   No  more  ! 
It  cannot  be." 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.     It  is.     If  less  the  gloom, 

You  might  have  seen,  my  lord,  your  very  tomb 
Behind  you  there.     And  fully  on  the  scroll 
How,  Philip  Vernon  drowned,  "  his  precious  soul 
Is  with  the  saints."     Oh,  I  could  laugh,  were  death 
Less  neighbored  to  my  mirth.     Also  it  saith, 


PHILIP   VERNON  »9 

"A  youth  of  parts;  well  loved,"  that's  very  truth; 
"  Witty  and  virtuous,  also  learned  " —  forsooth, 
I  think  I  must  have  loved  you  in  your  youth, 

And  ever  since,  my  Philip. What  to  do 

I  know  not.     Yes !  let  your  sword  counsel  you. 
Seek  my  Lord  Howard,  the  High  Admiral; 
Tell  him  this  story  boldly.     Ay,  tell  all  — 
All  this  strange  story.     Let  what  may  befall, 
You  cannot  lose  my  love.     Go,  go,  my  lord; 
Only  to  England  could  my  soul  afford 
This  new-born  hope.     Go  now;  the  Spanish  fleet 
Is  on  the  seas.     Go,  Philip.     When  you  meet 
Your  boyhood's  jailers,  strike  for  brave  Queen  Bess, 
And  for  this  Bess,  that  is  thy  queen  no  less. 
Go !     I  shall  love  you  as  no  mortal  man 
Was  ever  loved  of  maid  since  love  began. 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

My  God,  I  thank  thee  for  this  hour  of  grace. 

As  he  speaks  he  kneels,  and  sets  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
then  looking  up,  says : 

"  Hope,  honor,  home,  a  land  to  serve,  a  face 
Dear  as  the  summer  sun  to  prisoned  men, 
Life,  trust,  and  love,  I  have  them  all  again. 
Love !     By  my  soul,  I  would  I  knew  a  word 
Unsoiled  by  this  world's  commerce  —  never  heard, 
Save  by  some  ardent  angel,  that  should  say 
My  more  than  earthly  love." 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Oh,  haste  away ! 

Let  love  teach  haste.     This  for  the  stirrup-cup ! 
And  now,  God  speed  you  !     All  the  country  's  up ; 


9°  PHILIP    VERNON 

The  highway  's  watched ;   I   think   none   guard  the 

shore : 

That  way  is  safest.     Here,  this  farther  door 
Leads  to  the  strand.     Go,  set  those  wits  to  see 
What  rose  of  honor  you  can  pluck  for  me. 

They  go  out  of  the  chapel,  and  descend  to  the  bank  of 
the  river. 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

Good-night !    Sweet  night,  that  marries  hope  to  love. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Good-night.     God  keep  you,  and  all  saints  above ! 

She  stands  and  watches  him  as  his  boat  goes  down  the 
river. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Oh,  I  could  cry,  could  laugh;  and  if  I  knew 
A  saint  of  laughter,  I  would  pray  that  you 
Do  keep  me  merry  for  good  cause.  Alack, 
Being  but  a  maid,  I  would  I  had  you  back. 


THE    GARDEN 
VERNON  CASTLE  OF  A  MORNING  IN  AUGUST  1588 

ELIZABETH  VERNON  walks  amidst  the  flowers,  an  open 
letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  the  sweet  morning  and  the  sweeter  news 
That  make  me  doubly  glad !     Ah,  who  would  lose 
The  hours  of  grief  that  won  this  leave  to  smile 


PHILIP   VERNON  9* 

Through  one  long  careless  day  of  joy,  the  while 

I  wait  a  larger  joy !     Our  smiles  and  tears 

Have  many  meanings.     I  could  weep  to-day 

For  very  joy;  and  yesterday  my  fears 

Fetched  me  strange  laughter,  though  my  life  seemed 

gray 

With  age  of  longing.     Oh,  be  glad  with  me, 
Ye  English  roses !     See,  the  morning  sun 
Asks  for  the  lifted  face  of  prayer.    The  sea, 
God's   sea,   laughs   with   us;   we   have   won  —  have 

won !  " 

Thus  speaking,  Elizabeth  Vernon  walks  to  and  fro  among 
the  flowers,  and  sometimes  pauses  to  shadow  her  eyes 
with  her  hand,  that  she  may  look  across  the  river  all 
a-glitter  with  the  sun.  But  at  last  she  kneels  on  the  sod, 
and,  laughing,  cries: 

"  I  must  kiss  someone,  something.     You,   red   rose, 

Will  never  whisper  it  if  I  suppose 

You  are  my  Philip.     Kiss  me,  kiss  me  quick ! 

These  be  the  lips  I  love.     I  '11  shut  my  eyes  — 

So  not  to  know  it  is  not  he.     I  'm  sick 

For  kisses.     Ah,  but  when  he  comes,  and  tries 

To  kiss  me,  I  '11  be  maidenly  and  wise, 

And  say,  Fie  on  you,  sir !  " 

Philip  Vernon,  coming  of  a  sudden  through  the  hedge: 

"  Sweetheart,  take  this  ! 
I  '11  play  rose-lover  with  you,  till  I  kiss 
You  one  red  rose  with  blushes.     He  who  brings 
A  galleon-freight  of  kisses,  each  with  wings 
Of  gathered  honor,  cannot  beggared  be." 


92  PHILIP    VERNON 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.     My  love  !  my  lord  ! 

PHILIP  VERNON.  One  kiss  from  thee  outweighs 

A  hundred  given.     Not  all  love's  usury, 
Not  all  the  interest  of  unnumbered  days, 
Can  keep  us  even. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.         There  's  for  ransom,  see  ! 
Oh,  I  '11  be  honest.     Tell  me  of  the  fight. 
Indeed,  I  prayed  for  you  both  morn  and  night. 
Now,  tell  me  of  it.     Did  we  hear  aright? 
Hast  seen  the  Queen? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  Aye,  and  she  mocked  me,  too, 

Because  these  lands  are  cumbered,  love,  with  you. 
I  had  her  pardon  also.     My  Lord  Grey 
Takes  more  to  kill  him  than  most  traitors  may. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.    The  packet  reached  the  chancellor? 

PHILIP  VERNON.  You  did  well 

To  send  it.     I  have  no  long  tale  to  tell. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Sit  near  me,  Philip.     Now,  the  battle,  pray ! 

PHILIP  VERNON. 

Oh,  I'll  be  brief;  I've  other  things  to  say. 
We  caught  them  in  the  Channel.     Day  by  day 
We  hung  about  them,  like  bold  dogs  that  tease 
Great  lumbering  bullocks;  left  them  at  our  ease, 
Then  bit  again,  until  each  bloody  deck. 
Mast,  sail,  and  timber,  shorn  to  shattered  wreck, 


PHILIP    VERNON  93 

Their  cannon  silent,  helpless,  overpowered, 
Northward  they  drifted,  and  a  storm  that  lowered 
Broke  on  their  ruin,  pitiless  and  swift. 
The  gray  fog  closed  about  them  like  a  pall; 
The  great  seas,  leaping,  smote  them,  and  the  lift 
Grew  dark  above  them.     One  bleak  funeral, 
They  passed  from  sight  of  man.     For  us,  we  fled 
To  'scape  the  storm's  worst  peril. 

All  is  said 
That  may  not  till  the  morrow  be  delayed. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON. 

Ah,  never  day  like  this  has  England  seen ! 
Come,  drink  a  cup  to  England  and  the  Queen : 
I  '11  cast  my  love  within  the  bowl. 

PHILIP  VERNON.  That  pearl 

Shall  jewel  every  cup  of  life. 

ELIZABETH  VERNON.  Sweet  Earl, 

Thy  people  grow  impatient.     Hark !  the  chimes 
Ring  in  their  new  lord,  and  these  gladder  times. 


RESPONSIBILITY 

Thus,  lying  among  roses  in  the  garden  of  the  Great  Inn 
after  certain  cups  of  wine,  I,  Attar  El  Din,  sang  of  things 
to  come,  when,  I  being  dead  a  day,  the  Angels  of  Affirma 
tion  and  Denial  should  struggle  for  my  soul. 

"  I,  Moonkir,  the  angel,  am  come 

To  count  of  his  good  deeds  the  sum, 

For  this  mortal  death-stricken  and  dumb." 

"  I,  Nekkir,  the  clerk  of  ill-thought, 
Am  here  to  dispute  what  hath  wrought 
This  breeder  of  song,  come  to  naught. 

"  Let  us  call  from  the  valleys  of  gloom, 
From  the  day's  death  of  sleep  and  the  tomb, 
The  wretched  he  lured  to  their  doom." 

Then,  such  as  my  song  had  made  weep 
Came  parting  the  tent-folds  of  sleep, 
Or  rose  from  their  earth-couches  deep. 

SPAKE  A  VOICE: 

"  I  sat  beside  the  cistern  on  the  sand, 
When  this  man's  song  did  take  me  in  its  hand, 
And  hurled  me,  helpless,  as  a  sling  the  stone 
That  knows  not  will  nor  pity  of  its  own. 
94 


RESPONSIBILITY  95 

Within  my  heart  was  seed  of  murder  sown, 

So  once  I  struck  —  yea,  twice,  when  he  did  groan." 


SPAKE  A  VOICE: 

"  Ay,  that  was  the  song 

Which  I  heard  as  I  lay 

'Gainst  my  camel's  broad  flanks, 

Thinking  how  to  repay 

The  death-debt  so  bitter  with  wrong. 

I  rose,  as  he  sang,  to  rejoice 

With  a  blessing  of  thanks; 

For  the  song  ruled  my  slack  will  and  me, 

Like  one  who  doth  lustily  throw 

The  power  of  hand  and  of  knee 

To  string  up  to  purpose  a  bow. 

Quick  I  stole  through  the  dark,  but  delayed 

To  hear  how,  with  every-day  phrase, 

Such  as  useth  a  child  or  a  maid, 

From  praise  of  decision  to  praise 

Of  the  quiet  of  evening  he  fell. 

Thus  a  torrent  grows  still  on  the  plain 

To  mirror  how  come  through  the  grain 

The  women  with  jars  to  the  well. 

Swift  I  drew  o'er  the  sands  cool  and  gray, 

With  my  knife  in  my  teeth  held  to  slay. 

Hot  and  wet  felt  my  hand  as  it  crept  — 

Lo !  dead  'neath  my  hand  the  man  lay ; 

This  other  had  struck  where  he  slept." 

Then  Moonkir,  who  treasures  good  deeds, 
To  mark  how  the  total  exceeds, 
Said,  "  He  soweth  or  millet  or  weeds 


96  RESPONSIBILITY 

Who  casts  forth  a  song  in  the  night, 
As  a  pigeon  is  flung  for  its  flight; 
He  knoweth  not  where  't  will  alight. 
Lo,  Allah  a  wind  doth  command, 
And  the  caravan  dies  in  the  sand, 
And  the  good  ship  is  sped  to  the  land." 


SPAKE  A  VOICE: 

"  I  lay  among  the  idle  on  the  grass, 

And  saw  before  me  come  and  go,  alas ! 

This  evil  rhymer.     And  he  sang  how  God 

Is  but  the  cruel  user  of  the  rod, 

And  how  the  wine-cup  better  is  than  prayer: 

Whereon  I  cursed,  and  counselled  with  despair, 

And  drank  with  him,  and  left  my  field  untilled, 

Whilst  all  my  house  with  woe  and  want  was  filled. 

SPAKE  A  VOICE: 

"  And  I  that  took  no  heed  of  things  divine, 
But  ever  loved  to  loiter  with  the  wine, 
Was  straightway  sobered.     From  the  inn  I  went, 
And  in  the  folded  stillness  of  my  tent 
Wrestled  with  Allah,  till  the  morning  fair 
Beheld  this  scorner  like  the  rest  at  prayer." 

Quoth  I,  this  same  Attar  El  Din, 
Whose  doubtful  proportion  of  sin 
These  angels  considered  within: 

"  Ye  weighers  of  darkness  and  light, 
Ere  cometh  the  day  and  the  night, 
Mark  how,  from  the  minaret's  height, 


RESPONSIBILITY  97 

The  prayer-seed  of  Allah  is  strown : 
In  the  heart  of  the  man  it  is  sown. 
He  tilleth,  or  letteth  alone. 

"  Behold  at  even-time  within  my  tent 

I  wailed  in  song  because  a  death-shaft,  sent 

From  Azrael's  fateful  bow,  had  laid  in  dust 

My  eldest-born ;  I  sang  because  I  must. 

For  hate,  love,  joy,  or  grief,  like  Allah's  birds, 

I  have  but  song,  and  man's  dull  use  of  words 

Fills  not  the  thirsty  cup  of  my  desire 

To  hurt  my  brothers  with  the  scorch  of  fire 

That  burns  within.     Yea,  they  must  share  my  fate, 

Love  with  me,  hate,  with  me  be  desolate. 

And  so  I  drew  my  bowstring  to  the  eye, 

And  shot  my  shafts,  I  cared  not  where  or  why, 

If  but  the  men  indifferent,  who  lay 

Beneath  the  palm-trees  at  the  fall  of  day, 

I  could  make  see  with  me  the  dead  boy's  look 

That  swayed  me  as  the  bent  reeds  of  the  brook 

Sway  when  the  sudden  torrent  of  the  hills 

From  bank  to  bank  the  crumbling  channel  fills. 

"Then  one  who  heard  me,  and  through  stress  of  grief 
Struggled  with  agony  of  loss  in  vain, 
Into  the  desert  fled,  and  made  full  brief 
A  clearance  with  the  creditor  called  Pain, 
And  by  a  sword-thrust  gave  his  heart  relief. 

"  But  one  whose  eyes  were  dry  as  summer  sand 
Wept  as  I  sang,  and  said,  '  I  understand.' 

"  And  one,  who  loved,  did  rightly  comprehend, 
Because  I  sang  how,  ever  to  life's  end, 


RESPONSIBILITY 

The  death-fear  sweetens  love:  and  went  his  way 
With  deepened  love  to  where  the  dark-eyed  lay." 

SPAKE  A  VOICE: 

"  My  father's  foe,  a  dying  man, 

Thirst-stricken  near  the  brookside  lay; 

Its  prattle  mocked  him  as  it  ran, 

So  near  and  yet  so  far  away. 

While  the  quick  waters  cooled  my  feet, 

Hot  from  the  long  day's  desert  heat, 

I  drank  deep  draughts,  and  deep  delight 

Of  vengeance  sated  and  complete, 

Because  the  great  breast  heaved  and  groaned, 

The  red  eyes  yearned,  the  black  lips  moaned, 

Because  my  foe  should  die  ere  night. 

Then,  as  a  rich  man  scatters  alms, 

This  careless  singer  'neath  the  palms, 

With  lapse,  and  laughter,  and  pauses  long, 

Merrily  scattered  the  gold  of  song, 

A  babble  of  simple  childish  chants : 

How  they  dig  little  wells  with  the  small  brown  hand 

How  they  watch  the  caravan  march  of  the  ants, 

And  build  tall  mosques  with  the  shifting  sand, 

And  are  mighty  sheiks  of  a  corner  of  land. 

"Ah!  the  rush  and  the  joy  of  the  singing 
Swept  peace  o'er  my  hate,  and  was  sweet 
As  the  freshness  the  waters  were  bringing 
Was  cool  to  my  desert-baked  feet. 

"  Thereon  I  raised  mine  enemy,  and  gave 
The  cold  clear  water  of  the  wave; 


RESPONSIBILITY  99 

And  when  he  blessed  me  I  did  give  again, 
And  had  strange  fear  my  bounty  were  but  vain; 
When,  as  I  bent,  he  smote  me  through  the  breast. — 
And  that  is  all !     Great  Allah  knows  the  rest." 

Said  Nekkir,  the  clerk  of  man's  wrong, 
"  Great  Solomon's  self  might  be  long 
In  judging  this  mad  son  of  song." 

Then  I,  who  am  Attar  El  Din, 

Cried,  "  Surely  no  two  shall  agree ! 

Thou  mighty  collector  of  sin, 

Be  advised:  come  with  me  to  the  Inn; 

There  are  friends  who  shall  witness  for  me  — 

Big-bellied,  respectable,  stanch, 

One  arm  set  a-crook  on  the  haunch ; 

They  will  pour  the  red  wine  of  advice, 

And  behold !  ye  shall  know  in  a  trice 

How  hopeless  for  wisdom  to  weigh 

The  song-words  a  poet  may  say." 

Cried  Moonkir,  the  clerk  of  good  thought, 
"Ah,  where  shall  decision  be  sought? 
Let  us  quit  this  crazed  maker  of  song, 
A  confuser  of  right  and  of  wrong." 

"  But  first,"  laughed  I,  Attar  El  Din, 
"  I  am  dry :  leave  my  soul  at  the  Inn." 

NEWPORT,  1891. 


WIND   AND    SEA 


SCENE  I 

A  June  Afternoon. — Meadows. — A  Farm,  with  distant 
Woods;  New  Jersey  Coast;  Cape  May. 

AN  idle  group  within  the  willow's  shade 
We  lay  and  chatted,  holding  lazy  tilts, 
And  many  a  lance  of  mocking  laughter  broke, 
Or  calmly  settled  creeds  and  governments 
High  on  the  pleasant  uplands  of  content, 
Till  soon  the  westering  sun  peeped  underneath 
The  fringes  of  our  green  tent-skirts,  and  fell, 
Where  on  the  paling-fence  the  milk-cans  gleamed, 
Red  in  the  level  gold,  whilst  suddenly, 
Swift  from  the  sea,  the  gay  salt  breezes  came, 
And,  dipping  like  the  swallows  here  and  there, 
With  quick  cool  kisses  touched  the  startled  grain, 
And  fled  ashamed,  to  seek  new  loves  afar, 
Where  in  the  dark  damp  marsh  the  lilies  float, 
And  lustrous-leaved  the  white  magnolia  lifts 
Its  silvery  censers,  and  the  frogs,  like  friars, 
Intone  their  even-song  along  the  marge. 

HESTER  (rising). 

How  sweet  the  air !     Wilt  hear  the  song  you  made 
Of  this  same  gentle  north  wind's  winter  pranks? 
100 


WIND    AND    SEA  IO1 

The  lusty  north  wind  all  night  long 

His  carols  sang  above  my  head, 
And  shook  the  roof,  and  roused  the  fire, 

And  with  the  cold,  red  morning  fled. 

Yet  ere  he  left,  upon  my  'panes 
He  drew,  with  bold  and  easy  hand, 

The  pine  and  fir,  and  icy  bergs, 
And  frost  ferns  of  his  northern  land; 

And  southward,  like  the  Northmen  old 
Whose  ships  he  drove  across  the  seas, 

Has  gone  to  fade  where  roses  grow, 
And  die  among  the  orange-trees. 

ALFRED. 

That 's  music  for  a  poet's  soul,  his  words 
Soft  slipping  from  a  woman's  lips,  the  while 
Caressed  by  lingering  sunshine  wrapt  she  stands, 
A  shining  aureole  round  her  fallen  hair. 

HENRY. 

A  bid  for  equal  flattery.     Let  us  go 
Across  the  sand  dunes  o'er  the  mazy  creeks. 
Hear  how  old  ocean  calls  us.     Come  away. 

FRANK. 

Dost  thou  remember  that  October  day 

We  three  together  stood  and  saw  at  eve 

The  wanton  wind  yon  sleeping  waves  arouse, 

Till  at  the  touch  of  that  coy  courtesan 

Strange  yearning  seized  them,  and  with  shout  and 

cry 

They  followed  fleetly,  while  she,  laughing,  fled 
Across  the  golden-rods  above  the  beach? 


102  WIND   AND    SEA 

HENRY. 

Ay,  then  it  was  you,  perched  beneath  an  oak, 
To  us,  the  long  expectant  heirs,  set  forth 
King  Autumn's  testament  and  royal  will. 

HESTER. 

I  pray  you  tell  again  his  dying  thoughts, 

And  we  shall  lie  upon  the  meadow  grass 

And  be  as  heirs  should  be,  stern  visaged,  grave, 

Whilst  you  within  yon  bower  of  wild  grapes  stand: 

So  shall  your  words  steal  o'er  the  listening  ear, 

Breeze-broken,  while  the  melancholy  sea 

Moans  his  sad  chorus  on  the  distant  shore. 

FRANK. 

Brown-visaged  Autumn  sat  within  the  wood, 
And  counted  miserly  his  ripened  wealth : 
I,  Autumn,  heritor  of  Summer's  wealth, — 
I,  Autumn,  who  am  old  and  near  to  death, — 
Do  thus  make  clear  my  will ;  I  dowered  earth 
With  fruit  and  flowers.     I  fed  her  hungry  tribes, 
The  bee,  the  bird,  the  worm,  the  lazy  flocks, 
And  like  a  king  who  unto  certain  death 
Goes  proudly  clad,  in  royal  state  I  go, 
Through  the  long  sunset  of  October  woods, 
Where    like    a    trembling   maid    the    smooth-limbed 

beech 

Lets  fall  her  ruddy  robes,  or  where  afield 
Red  vine  leaves  fleck  the  cedar's  sombre  cone, 
Or  where  the  maple  and  the  hickory  tall 
Shed  the  long  summer's  store  of  garnered  gold. 
Mine,  too,  the  orchard's  raining  fruit,  and  mine 
Round-shouldered  melons  fattening  in  the  sun ; 


WIND   AND    SEA 

Mine  the  brown  pennons  of  the  rustling  maize, 
The  squirrel's  nutty  wealth,  the  wrinkled  gourd. 
For  I  am  Autumn,  lord  of  fruits  and  flowers, — 
God's  almoner  to  all  the  tribes  of  man. 
Here,  then,  to  earth  and  all  her  habitants, 
I,  dying,  leave  what  Summer's  bounty  gave: 
Great  store  of  grain,  ripe  fruit,  and  tasselled  corn 
Yea,  last  of  all,  and  best,  I  here  bequeath, 
With  loving  thought,  a  special  legacy 
To  all  good  fellows  everywhere  on  earth : 
To  them  I  give  the  sun-kissed  grapes  of  Spain, 
The  Rhine's  autumnal  treasure,  and  the  fruit 
Of  knightly  Burgundy  and  winding  Rhone; 
Nor  less  the  grape  of  Capri's  lifted  cliff, 
The  purple  globes  that  jewel  Ischia's  isle, 
And  that  sad  vintage  weeping  holy  tears 
On  black  Vesuvian  slopes.     To  them  I  give 
The  soothing  sweetness  of  the  Cuban  leaf 
Wherewith  to  hold  good  counsel,  when  life  palls, 
Wherewith  to  charm  away  some  weary  hour. 
And  when   from  thoughtful  lips  the  pale  blue 

wreaths 

Curl  upward,  and,  the  wanderer's  only  hearth, 
His  pipe-bowl,  glows  with  hospitable  fires, 
I  charge  them  drink  a  single  cup,  and  say: 
He  was  a  good  old  fellow  —  peace  to  him. 
So  died  great  Autumn,  passing  like  a  mist, 
Where  in  the  woodland  verge  the  maples  rain 
Reluctant  gold  in  hesitating  fall. 

ALFRED. 

What  ho !  good  minstrel.     Let  us  seaward  roam, 
fT  is  but  a  half-hour's  stroll  past  yonder  hill. 


104  WIND   AND    SEA 

FRANK. 

I  well  recall  the  way.     It  lies  within 
A  wood  of  stunted  cedars  and  of  firs, 
Which  heard  in  infancy  the  great  sea  moan, 
And  so  took  on  the  wilted  forms  of  fright. 

HESTER. 

Well,  too,  I  know  it:  when  the  tide  is  up 
'T  is  barred  and  traversed  by  an  hundred  creeks, 
So  populous  with  lilies,  you  might  dream 
King  Oberon's  navy  rode  at  anchor  there. 

FRANK. 

Let  us  away  to  it.     Our  sculptor  here 
Knows  not  the  sea  as  we  do.     He  shall  feast 
His  eager  eyes  on  it,  and  own  to  us 
That  earth  has  glories  other  than  the  curves 
Of  lithe  Apollo  and  the  queen  of  love. 

SCENE  II 
Seashore. — Sand  Dunes  dotted  with  distorted  Trees. 

HENRY. 

Why  never  can  the  painter  tell  to  us 
This  awful  story  of  a  lonely  sea, 
This  terrible  soliloquy  of  nature? 
Why  must  he  slip  us  in  the  bit  of  red, 
The  group  of  fishers  or  the  tossing  ship? 
Who  asks  for  life  or  human  action  here? 

FRANK. 

Nay,  man  is  nature's  complement.     The  sea, 
The  sky,  the  flowers  suggest  him.     Best  I  love 
The  smiling  landscape  of  a  woman's  face. 


WIND   AND    SEA  IO5 

ALFRED. 

But  he  who  worships  nature,  ought  to  be 
The  ready  lover  of  her  thousand  gods. 

HESTER. 

Lo !  what  a  thought  is  yon  triumphant  sea, 
A  thought  so  perfect  in  its  competence, 
That  I  would  leave  it  to  its  loneliness. 

ALFRED. 

Think  what  it  was  when  unto  God  there  came 
This  great  sea-thought. 

FRANK.  Here,  friend,  your  chisel  fails. 

'T  is  powerless  here.     Thank  heaven,  I  at  least 
Can  some  way  capture  it  with  feeble  brush. 

ALFRED. 

Alas,  't  is  no  man's  prize.     It  mocks  us  all. 
Leave  me  but  only  man,  and  you  may  paint, 
And  you  may  chisel.     I  would  sail  alone 
The  great  Atlantic  of  the  human  heart. 

HENRY. 

Do  you  remember  how,  last  summer,  here 
We  played  with  fancies,  and  in  idle  mood 
Struck  to  and  fro  the  shuttlecocks  of  thought? 

FRANK. 

Ah,  well  I  do.     'T  was  such  an  hour  as  comes 
Once  in  the  life  of  joy.     Just  here  we  lay. 
As  oft  before,  you  led  the  playful  race. 


106  WIND    AND    SEA 

HENRY. 

Watch  now  the  waves;  each  has  its  little  life, 
High-couraged  triumph  in  yon  crest  of  pride, 
Some  proud  decision  in  its  onward  sweep, — 
Destruction,  failure, — 't  is  a  history ! 

FRANK. 

I  like  it  best  when  of  a  winter  day 
The  cold  dry  norther  rolls  athwart  the  beach 
The  gleaming  foam-balls  into  serpents  white, 
And  all  the  sand  is  starred  with  rainbow  lights. 

HESTER. 

It  knoweth  all  the  secrets  of  my  moods: 
To-day  is  gay  with  me,  to-morrow  grave. 

FRANK. 

For  me  its  voice  is  ever  sorrowful 

As  some  God's  grief  beyond  all  earthly  speech. 

HESTER. 

How  wave  on  wave  turns  lapsing  on  the  beach, 
Like  the  great  leaves  of  some  eternal  book. 

ALFRED. 

Unread  forever  since  creation's  dawn. 

I  pray  you  notice  how  the  seaside  trees 

Seem  flying  headlong,  all  their  withering  limbs 

Stretched  landward,  craving  refuge  from  the  sea. 

FRANK. 

As  they  might  be  remorseful  murderers, 
That  heard  the  hoarse  deep,  like  an  angry  foe, 
Storm  up  the  sand  slopes  —  nearer,  nearer  still, 
Crying,  Vengeance,  vengeance !  all  the  summer 

night. 
1865. 


THE    SHRIVING    OF    GUINEVERE 

STILL  she  stood  in  the  shunning  crowd. 
"  Is  there  none,"  she  said,  aloud, 
"  None  who  knelt  to  me,  great  and  proud, 
Will  say  one  word  for  me,  sad  and  bowed  ? 
Alas !  it  seems  to  me,  if  I 
Were  one  of  you,  who,  standing  by, 
Hear  gathered  in  a  woman's  cry 
The  years  of  such  an  agony, 
It  seemeth  me  that  I  would  take 
Sweet  pity's  side  for  mine  own  sake, 
And,  knowing  guilt  alone  should  quake, 
For  chance  of  right  one  battle  make." 
But,  no  man  heeding  her,  she  stayed 
Beneath  the  linden's  trembling  shade, 
And  peered,  half  hopeful,  half  afraid, 
While  passed  in  silence  man  and  maid. 
She,  staring  on  the  stone-dry  street 
Through  the  long  summer-noonday  heat, 
And,  stirring  never  from  her  seat, 
Half  saw  men's  shadows  pass  her  feet. 
"  Ah  me !  "  she  murmured,  "  well  I  see 
How  bitter  each  day's  life  may  be 
To  them  who  have  not  where  to  flee 
And  are  as  one  with  misery." 
But,  whether  knight  to  tourney  rode, 
107 


108  THE    SHRIVING   OF    GUINEVERE 

Or  bridal  garments  past  her  flowed, 

Or  by  some  bier  slow  mourners  trode, 

No  sign  of  life  the  woman  showed. 

When  as  the  priestly  evening  threw 

The  blessed  waters  of  the  dew, 

About  her  head  her  cloak  she  drew 

And  hid  her  face  from  every  view; 

Till,  as  the  twilight  grew  to  shade, 

And  passed  no  more  or  man  or  maid, 

A  sudden  hand  was  on  her  laid. 

"And  who  art  thou?"  she  moaned,  afraid. 

Beside  her  one  of  visage  sad, 

Which  yet  to  see  made  sorrow  glad, 

Stood,  in  a  knight's  white  raiment  clad, 

But  neither  sword  nor  poniard  had. 

"  One  who  has  loved  you  well,"  he  said. 

"  Living  I  loved  you  well,  and  dead 

I  love  you  still;  when  joys  were  spread 

Like  flowers,  and  greatness  crowned  your  head, 

None  loved  you  more.     Not  Arthur  gave  — 

He  will  not  check  me  from  his  grave  — 

So  pure  a  love;  nor  Launcelot  brave 

With  deeper  love  had  yearned  to  save." 

"  Then,"  said  the  woman,  still  at  bay, 

"  Why  do  I  tremble  when  you  lay 

A  hand  upon  my  shoulder?     Stay, 

What  is  your  name,  sir  knight,  I  pray? 

For  wheresoever  memory  chase 

I  know  not  one  such  troubled  face, 

Nor  one  that  hath  such  godly  grace 

Of  solemn  sweetness  any  place: 

But,  whatsoever  man  you  be, 

What  is  it  you  would  have  of  me  ?  " 


THE   SHRIVING   OF    GUINEVERE  I°9 

Whereon,  he,  smiling  cheerily, 

Said :  "  I  would  have  you  follow  me." 

Not  any  answer  did  he  wait. 

But  turned  towards  the  city  gate; 

Not  any  word  said  she,  but  straight 

Went  after,  bent  and  desolate; 

And,  as  a  dream  might  draw,  he  drew 

Her  feet  to  action,  till  she  knew 

That  house  and  palace  round  her  grew, 

And  some  wild  revel's  reeling  crew, 

And  dame  and  page  and  squire  and  knight, 

And  torches  flashing  on  the  sight, 

And  fiery  jewels  flaming  bright, 

And  love  and  music  and  delight ; 

But  slow  across  the  spangled  green 

The  stern  knight  went  and  went  the  queen, — 

He  solemn,  silent,  and  serene, 

She  bending  low  with  humble  mien. 

But  where  he  turned  the  music  died, 

Love-parted  lips  no  more  replied, 

And,  shrinking  back  on  either  side, 

Serf  and  lord  stared,  wonder-eyed, 

Or  marvelling  shrunk  swift  away 

Before  that  visage  solemn,  gray, 

Till,  where  the  leaping  fountains  sway, 

Thick  showed  the  knights  in  white  array. 

Where'er  he  passed,  though  stirred  no  breeze, 

The  leaves  shook,  trembling  on  the  trees. 

Where'er  he  looked,  by  slow  degrees 

Fell  silence  and  some  strange  unease, 

While  whispers  ran:  "Who  may  it  be? 

What  knight  is  this?     And  who  is  she?  " 


1 10  THE    SHRIVING   OF    GUINEVERE 

But  only  Gawain  looked  to  see, 

And,  praying,  fell  upon  his  knee. 

Then  said  a  voice  full  solemnly: 

"  Of  all  the  knights  that  look  on  me, 

If  only  one  of  them  there  be 

That  never  hath  sinned  wittingly, 

Let  him  the  woman  first  disown, 

Let  him  be  first  to  cast  a  stone 

At  her  who,  fallen  from  a  throne, 

Is  sad  and  weary  and  alone. 

Him,  when  the  lists  of  God  are  set, 

Him,  when  the  knights  of  God  are  met, 

If  that  he  lacketh  answer  yet, 

The  soul  of  him  shall  answer  get." 

Then,  as  a  lily  bowed  with  rain 
Leaps  shedding  it,  she  shed  her  pain, 
And  towering  looked  where  men,  like  grain 
Storm-humbled,  bent  upon  the  plain; 
Whilst  over  her  the  cold  night  air 
Throbbed  with  some  awful  pulse  of  prayer, 
As,  bending  low  with  reverent  care,     ' 
She  kissed  the  good  knight's  raiment  fair. 
When  as  she  trembling  rose  again, 
And  felt  no  more  in  heart  and  brain 
The  weary  weight  of  sin  and  pain, 
For  him  that  healed  she  looked  in  vain; 
And  from  the  starry  heavens  immense 
Unto  her  soul  with  penitence 
Came,  as  if  felt  by  some  new  sense, 
The  noise  of  wings  departing  thence. 
1874- 


THE  SWAN-WOMAN 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    TYROL 

I  TOLD  this  story  once  to  Kaiser  Max. 

If  he  believed  it,  that  can  no  man  say. 

Within  the  Alte  Kirche  they  have  placed 

His  statue,  kneeling,  sword  in  hand,  at  prayer; 

And  though  the  cunning  carver  in  his  skill 

Hath  on  that  face  a  hundred  battles  set, 

And  dooms  of  men,  and  many  a  laden  year 

Of  swift  decisions,  not  those  lips  in  life 

Told  more  they  would  not  than  this  face  of  bronze. 

Hast  been  at  Innspruck?     When  the  evening 

glooms, 

Go  see  him  girt  about  with  lord  and  dame, 
Arthur  of  England,  Alaric,  and  the  Duke. 

In  those  days  every  great  man  had  his  fool, 
And  some  men  were  their  own,  which  saved  some 

fools 

Their  share  of  fools'  pay,  cuffs;  but  so  it  was. 
And  now  it  chanced  our  ancient  fool  was  dead 
And  gone  to  heaven,  to  be  an  angel-fool. 
Thus,  fool-craft  prospering,  they  came  by  scores 
To  that  bleak  castle  in  the  Tyrol  hills, 
in 


112  THE    SWAN-WOMAN 

And,  while  my  lady  and  the  knight  above 

Looked  from  the  balcony,  made  sport  below, 

And  jeered  the  men-at-arms,  or  mocked  the  page. 

But  most  had  wits  like  bludgeons,  till  my  lord, 

A  smileless  man  save  when  in  shock  of  arms 

He  struck  a  blow  that  ever  after  quenched 

The  human  laughter  of  some  gentler  soul, 

Tired  of  their  jesting,  drove  them  roughly  forth. 

So,  out  they  went,  until,  one  summer  eve, 

Came  gaily  singing  up  the  castle  hill 

A  man  —  scarce  more  than  man,  with  cap  and  bells, 

Head  up,  chin  out,  just  a  fool's  carriage  all; 

And  strutted  gravely  round  the  court,  and  smiled, 

And  kissed  white  fingers  to  my  lady's  maid, 

Whereon,  at  last,  the  burly  cook  cried  out, 

"  A  silent  fool ;  God  send  us  many  such !  " 

But  he,  "  Your  Greasy  Grace  will  pardon  me,  for  I 

Am  but  a  lady's  fool."     Quoth  Hans  the  Squire, 

"  Ho  then,  't  will  suit  my  lord,  a  lady's  fool !  " 

And  so  they  giggling  pushed  him  up  the  stairs, 

And  through  the  great  hall  where  my  lord  at  meat 

Sat  with  my  lady  and  a  score  of  guests, 

Pilgrim  and  merchant,  and,  above  the  salt, 

A  knight  or  two,  and  kinsfolk  of  my  lord. 

"What  jest  is  this?" 

"  We  've  found  a  lady's  fool ! 
A  silent  fool,  who  can  but  grunt  a  joke 
Like  our  old  boar ;  "  but  as  he  spake  I  saw 
My  fool's  right  hand  twitch  at  his  belt  to  left, 
As  one  through  habit  seeking  for  his  sword 
When  stung  by  insult ;  flushing  deep,  he  bowed, 
Said,  "  By  your  leave,  my  lady,"  turned  and  fetched 


THE   SWAN-WOMAN  1 13 

Big  Hans  so  rude  a  buffet  on  the  ear, 

The  big  squire  tumbled  half  across  the  hall. 

"  Saint  Margaret !  "  cried  my  lord,  "  the  jest  is  good. 

And  this  is  what  you  call  a  lady's  fool? 

Canst  gossip,  mock,  tell  tales,  sing  songs  at  need  ?  " 

"  Ay,  noble  sir,  sing,  jest,  crack  jokes  or  heads; 

But  that 's  a  serious  business,  and  spoils  fools, 

The  cracker  and  the  cracked.     Perchance  my  lord 

Would  try  my  folly  for  a  month  or  two, 

When,  if  it  reach  the  level  of  my  lord, 

If  I  crack  jokes  as  well  as  he  cracks  heads, 

My  lord  shall  set  my  wage." 

"  So  be  it,  fool. 

Give  him  the  dead  fool's  tower ;  and  look  you,  fool, 
Leave  to  your  betters  the  rough  sport  of  blows, 
Lest  to  your  grief  I  take  to  fools'  trade  too." 
Low  bent  the  fool  to  hide  his  troubled  face, 
Then  meekly  said,  "  King  Folly's  fool  were  I 
To  doubt  my  lord's  success."     But  while  the  Count, 
Perplexed  and  grim,  rose  angrily,  the  dame, 
Pleased  with  the  tilting  at  her  heavy  lord, 
Laughed  a  sweet  girl-laugh  outright,  and  for  hint 
Plucked  at  her  dull  lord's  sleeve,  while  level-eyed 
To  meet  whatever  gaze  might  question  his, 
Our  fool  said  carelessly,  "I  jest  for  dames. 
A  woman's  fool  am  I,  as  who  is  not 
Some  woman's  fool  ?  " —  then  lightly,  wrist  on  hip, 
With  something  of  too  easy  grace  fell  back 
Smiling  and  gay.     And  so  we  got  our  fool. 
But  I,  that  had  been  bred  to  be  a  priest, 
And  shut  in  convent  walls  had  learned  perforce 
To  read  men's  eyes  for  comment  on  their  lips, 
Saw  some  quick  change  in  this  man's  as  he  turned, 


H4  THE    SWAN-WOMAN 

Some  lifting  of  the  lids.     Orbs  garnet-hued 
In  wide  white  margins  set,  and  tender,  too, 
Methought  a  strange  face  for  a  fool,  indeed. 
Yet  somehow  from  his  coming  all  the  house 
Grew  gay.     And  never  gentler  jester  was. 
For  when  he  laughed  't  was  like  a  baby's  laugh, 
Less  at  than  with  you ;  but  he  won  them  all, 
Cook,  page,  and  men-at-arms ;  and  surly  Hans 
He  charmed  by  teaching  him  the  buffet's  trick 
And  bought  him  a  new  dagger,  and  had  gold 
For  them  that  wanted ;  yet  my  lord  he  shunned, 
Or,  meeting,  puzzled  him  with  jest  on  jest, 
Some  savage  truth  in  wordy  masquerade. 
But  above  all  he  was  my  lady's  fool ; 
Sang  for  her, —  ay,  sang  to  her,  I  should  say; 
Told  tales  of  Arthur  in  the  chapel  yon, — 
Stories  of  ancient  magic  and  quaint  jests 
Of  masque  and  tourney  and  the  Kaiser's  court, 
So  that  my  lady,  who  was  young  and  fair, 
And  yearning  for  some  heart-hold  upon  life, 
Like  the  loosed  tendril  of  a  wind-blown  vine 
That  seeks  and  knows  not  wrhy,  smiled  once  again, 
And  blossomed  like  a  bud  surprised  by  June ; 
Then  took  to  hawking,  to  my  lord's  delight, 
With  me,  a  page,  for  company,  and  the  fool 
To  call  the  hawks,  or  tie  their  jesses  on. 
So,  many  a  day  I  followed  them,  as  home 
They  rode,  he  talking  strange  things  of  the  stars, 
Or  calling  bird  and  beast  with  cries  they  knew. 
Cursed  goblin-tricks,  not  priest-taught,  be  you  sure 
Could  read  you,  too,  the  thing  that  was  to  be 
By  peering  at  your  palm,  until  my  lord 
Bade  one  day  tell  him  what  would  come  about 


THE    SWAN-WOMAN 

When  he,  the  Count,  should  issue  forth  to  take 

His  turn  at  beating  back  the  island  lords. 

I  judged  the  fool  reluctant,  but  he  took 

That  square  brown  hand  on  his,  and  lightly  traced 

With  ringers  lithe  and  white  its  mazy  lines, 

Then  paused,  grew  pale,  and  said,  "  What  God  doth 

hide 

Leave  thou  to  time's  wise  answer;"  but  the  Count 
Swore  roundly  that  the  fool  was  half  a  priest, 
Yet  started  up  in  haste,  and  asked  no  more. 

And  so  the  fool,  because  men  named  him  so, 

Had  leave  to  go  and  come;  or  at  her  feet 

To  lie,  and  wing  with  laughter  some  sweet  words, 

Or  with  fierce  emphasis  of  ardent  eyes 

To  look  the  thought  he  dared  not  put  in  speech. 

So,  love,  now  bold,  now  put  to  timid  flight, 

Grew  none  the  less  for  seeming-shy  retreats, 

Like  the  slow,  certain  tides  that  are  made  up 

Of  myriad  wave-deaths. 

Yet  she  knew  it  not. 

Then  came  the  war.     To  north  the  Margrave  rose ; 
To  south  the  great  sea-lords  broke  out  anew. 
So,  late  in  May  our  broad,  bull-headed  lord 
Put  on  his  armor,  growling,  since  each  year 
He  could  not  have  it  like  a  crab's  case  grow, 
But  guessed  some  exercise  in  cracking  skulls 
Might  slack  his  belt,  if  helped  by  scant  camp-fare. 
And  scant  it  was,  for  some  few  marches  thence 
A  robber  horde  fell  on  him  from  a  wood, 
Slew  half  his  train,  and  plucked  him  from  his  horse, 
And  bore  him  with  them  as  they  fled  away. 
But  Hans  they  loosed,  sore  hurt,  and  bade  him  take 


Jl6  THE    SWAN-WOMAN 

His  way  across  the  hills,  and  tell  the  dame 
What  fate  her  lord  should  have  if  three  days  gone 
No  ransom  bond  came  back  to  bring  release. 
But  two  days  later  fell  the  wounded  squire, 
Dust-grayed  and  bleeding,  at  the  lady's  feet, 
And  failing  fast  cried  out,  "  My  lord,  my  lord ! 
Ransom  —  thy  lord  —  a  castle  in  the  hills  — 
Three  days  —  and  two  are  gone  —  the  third  he 

dies." 

Then  rose  upon  his  elbow,  said  some  words 
None  heard  except  the  fool,  and  so  fell  back, 
And  ended  honestly  an  honest  life. 
But  as  he  spoke,  in  haste  my  lady  turned, 
Some  masterful  set  purpose  in  her  face; 
Bade  double  guards,  called  in  more  men  for  aid, 
The  castle  put  in  siege-shape,  knowing  not 
What  ill  might  follow  next.     Then  stood  in  doubt, 
Till  on  the  fool's  stirred  face  her  large  eyes  fell. 
"'  And  this  must  end  !  "  she  cried.     "  Sir,  follow  me  ! 
And  led  him  out  upon  the  eastern  tower, 
Where  many  an  eve  they  two  had  stayed  to  watch 
Tofana's  shadow  cross  Ampezza's  vale. 
Then  of  a  sudden  facing  him,  in  wrath, 
"  Sir,  was  it  knightly,  this  that  you  have  done? 
What  crime  or  folly  bade  you  refuge  here  ?  " 
"  Madam,  a  poor  fool's  fancy."     "  Nay,  't  was  you, 
'T  was  you  who  in  the  jousts  at  Ims,  last  year, 
O'erthrew  my  lord,  and  won  the  tourney's  prize, 
Then  round  the  lists  with  lifted  visor  rode, 
Cast  in  my  lap  the  jewel  as  you  passed, 
And  known  to  none,  unquestioned,  rode  away. 
Nay,  sir,  the  truth,  the  truth."     This  once  again 
He  set  his  face  for  company  with  a  lie, 


THE    SWAN-WOMAN  117 

But  looking,  saw  her  red  lips  droop  in  scorn, 

Nor  dared  to  meet  the  judgment  in  her  eyes, 

So,  backward  fell  a  pace,  and  murmured  low : 

"  I  came  because  I  loved  you,  and  I  stayed 

For  like  good  reason ;  yea,  my  life  had  been 

This  and  no  more  if  I  could  but  have  lived 

Beside  you,  near  you.     For  content  were  I 

To  leave  my  peers  their  strife  for  gold  or  land, 

And  in  the  quiet  convent  of  my  love 

To  let  sweet  hours  grow  to  days  as  sweet, 

And  these  to  months  of  ever-ripening  joy." 

"  Alas !  "  she  moaned,  "  God  help  me  in  my  need !  " 

Because  the  tender  blazonry  of  joy 

Lit  face  and  neck  with  wandering  isles  of  red. 

"  Ah,  love !  "  he  cried,  seeing  all  her  sweet  dismay, 

"  The  day  is  ours.     Fly  with  me  —  love  is  ours." 

But  then  some  angel  memory  came  at  call. 

"  Not  so,"  she  said.     "  Pray  sit  you  there  awhile. 

We  both  are  young  —  too  young  to  stain  with  sin 

Of  evil  loves  the  weary  years  to  come. 

That  bitter  day  the  margrave  stormed  St.  Jean, 

There  in  the  breach  all  that  God  gave  to  love, 

Father  and  brothers,  died.     None  left,  not  one. 

And  then  a  hell  of  rapine  and  of  blood 

Swept  all  the  town ;  and  I  —  well,  this  is  all : 

The  man  that  is  my  husband  now,  he  saved, 

Alas !  he  saved  me.     Yet  I  love  him  not." 

Then  like  to  one  who,  stranded  on  strange  shores, 

Awaking  sees  a  color  in  the  sky, 

And  knows  not  yet  if  it  be  dawn  or  dusk, 

Agaze,  he  saw  the  rose-light  leave  her  face, 

And,  being  noble,  knew  the  nobler  soul. 

"  I  go,"  he  said,—"  the  thing  I  did  was  ill." 


Il8  THE    SWAN-WOMAN 

But  on  his  motley  sleeve  a  hand  she  laid. 

"  Now  that  I  know  how,  loving  me,  love  guides 

To  honor,  not  to  baseness,  I  dare  ask 

The  man's  clear  counsel,  for  my  soul  is  set 

To  quit  me  of  the  debt  of  given  life ; 

Since  then,  perchance,  I  may  myself  forgive 

For  that  I  love  him  not,  and  shall  not  love; 

And  if  I  ask  of  thee,  because  I  must, 

To  do  the  thing  is  hateful  to  thy  soul, 

It  will  be  only  then  to  bid  thee  go, 

Because  I  may  not  love  thee,  and  I  shall." 

Then  he  paused,  pondering,  urged  here  and  there, 

Like  some  strong  swimmer  whom  the  waves  at  will 

Hurl  landward  and  take  back ;  till,  in  strange  haste, 

As  one  who  fears  delay,  he  spake  quick  words : 

"  Now  if  thy  soul  be  certain  of  itself, 

If  thou  canst  say,  Thus  will  I,  death  or  life ! 

I  hold  a  charm  which,  to  strong  purpose  wed, 

Shall  free  thy  heart  from  bondage  to  this  debt. 

Once  on  a  forest  verge,  I,  but  a  lad, 

Set  free  a  Jew  some  robber  lord  left  bound, 

And  for  remembrance  got  this  little  ring: 

A  face  in  gold,  you  see,  and  o'er  its  eyes 

Twin  hands  clasped  tight.     But  if  at  midnight  one 

Shall  turn  it,  and  shall  dare  with  purpose  sure 

To  will  that  she  shall  be  some  living  thing, 

Or  bird  or  other  creature  of  the  woods, 

Three  days  the  charm  will  hold,  the  fourth  will  break. 

The  winged  wood-pigeon  knows  to  find  its  mate, 

And  if  thou  wilt  but  give  thine  instinct  wings 

Thou  too  shalt  find  thy  mate ;  but  I,  if  I 

Should  crown  my  follies  with  a  larger  jest, 

And  set  my  master  free,  the  deed  were  thine, 


THE   SWAN-WOMAN  1 19 

Because  thine  own  heart  is  not  more  thine  own 
Than  I  who  love  thee."     Then  in  dread  he  stood, 
Fearing  the  devil  in  himself;  but  she, 
"  Not  so !  the  debt  is  mine.    If  death  befall, 
Death  is  an  honest  debtor,  and  God  pays," 
Seized  quick  the  ring,  and  of  a  sudden  fled, 
While  slow  the  fool  went  down  the  turret  stair. 
"  Alas !  "  he  said,  "  can  heaven  be  bought  with  hell 
As  hell  with  heaven  thereafter?"     Then  alone 
Swift  from  the  castle-gate  he  fled,  and  came 
To  where,  long  miles  away,  within  the  wood, 
Three  knights  stood  waiting,  and  a  steed  that  neighed 
To  greet  his  master.     But  he  would  not  arm, 
And  saying  merely  "  Yea,  a  fool  I  am," 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  swiftly  through  the  wood 
Rode,  while  they  whispered,  "  Surely  he  is  dazed." 

At  noon  of  night  our  gentle  lady  tied 

A  silken-threaded  letter  round  her  neck, 

And  on  the  turret  stood  and  turned  the  ring, 

And  looked,  and  saw  —  for  now  the  moon  was  full  — 

Strange  sunsets  glowing  in  the  changeful  gem, 

And  mists  of  color  floating  from  its  depths ; 

And  crying,  "Once  he  praised  my  swan-bowed  neck  !" 

Put  all  her  soul  in  one  fierce  wish,  and  felt 

Such  change  as  death  may  bring  or  life,  and  then 

Half  fear,  half  wonder,  like  a  soul  reborn, 

Rose  on  white  wings,  that  trembled  as  they  rose, 

And  flared  vast  shadows  o'er  the  old  gray  keep ; 

Till  in  the  joyous  freedom  of  her  flight 

Strong  with  delight  of  easy  strength  she  soared, 

And  caught  the  warm  gold  of  the  unrisen  sun 

As  souls  unprisoned  win  new  hopes  and  joys; 


120  THE    SWAN-WOMAN 

Saw  with   strange  thrills  the  white  wedge  of  her 

mates, 

And  falling  gently  through  the  morning  light 
Lit  where  the  sedgy  margins  green  and  brown 
Stirred,  as  with  tawny  webs  they  beat  the  wave. 
Some  bird-born  pleasure  luring,  long  she  stayed 
To  bathe  her  bosom's  silver  in  the  lake, 
Till  all  the  summer  day  went  by,  and  night 
With  sleep  wave-rocked  by  cool  wood-scented 

winds. 

But  when  another  morning  brake,  and  glad 
On  eager  wings  she  rose  to  greet  the  morn, 
Too  late  she  knew  no  tender  instincts  led. 
Wing-weary,  helpless,  hopeless,  sore  beset, 
Her  gold  eyes  fell  upon  a  train  of  knights, 
And  strong  with  joy  that  half  was  shame  or  fear, 
Weak-winged  she  fluttered  down,  and  saw  below 
The  fool  beside  her  lord,  and  knew,  alas, 
What  gentle  longings  drew  her  to  the  earth. 
There,  sullen  with  the  anger  of  the  dull, 
Her  grim  lord  rode,  or  with  wild  oaths  complained 
Because  with  prison  fare  his  arms  were  weak, 
His  eyes  grown  dim :  then  of  a  sudden  spied 
The  wild  white-winged  thing  over  him,  and  snatched 
A  cross-bow  from  his  saddle,  set  a  bolt, 
And  loosed  the  string,  and  heard  a  human  cry 
So  terrible  that  none  who  rode  with  him 
Lived  to  forget  it,  or  the  thin  red  rain 
That   flecked  the    fool's   white   cloak,   while   slowly 

down 

Light  feathers  flitted.     Then  the  fool  turned  short, 
Caught  the  knight's  saddle-axe,  and  cried  aloud, 
"Hast  thou,  O  beast  set  free,  no  kindly  sense?" 


THE   SWAN-WOMAN  121 

And  smote  the  great  brute  knight  so  fierce  a  blow 
That  man  and  steed  rolled  helpless ;  but  the  fool 
Struck  swiftly  here  and  there,  rode  down  a  squire, 
Cast  wide  his  axe,  and  spurring  wild  his  horse, 
With  eyes  in  air,  grim-staring  like  a  dog 
His  master  calls,  fled  where  the  wounded  swan 
Fast  faded  in  the  yellow  sunset's  glow. 
Homeward  in  wonderment  the  knight  they  bore, 
Hurt,  not  to  death,  and  ever  as  we  went, 
Cursing  himself,  and  us,  and  most  the  fool, 
And  marvelling  much  why  came  not  forth  his  dame. 
None  dared  to  tell  him  that  three  days  had  gone 
Since  any  saw  her  face.     So,  all  the  house 
Ran  to  and  fro  like  to  an  ant-heap  stirred, 
While  he,  that  loved  her  in  his  stolid  way, 
And  blindly  craved  some  sweetness  never  won, 
Sought  here  and  there  in  anger,  like  low  souls 
That  turn  to  wrath  all  passions,  and  at  last 
Brake  wildly  out  upon  the  turret-top, 
'Midst   man    and    squire    and    groom    and   wildered 

maids; 

For  there  they  found  the  lady,  cold  and  still, 
The  sweetest  dead  thing  that  a  man  could  see, 
And  in  her  bosom  white  a  cross-bow  bolt. 

1883. 


A    MEDAL 


PANDOLPHUS    MALATESTA,    ISOTTA. 

MALATESTA. 

WHY  does  it  pleasure  me,  Isotta,  why? 

Canst  guess, —  I  cannot, —  wherefore  such  as  I 

Should  crave  to  see  myself  in  bronze  or  gold? 

Matteo  hath  art's  courage.     He  is  bold ! 

God-made  or  devil-fashioned,  out  I  go 

For  comment  of  the  world,  or  friend  or  foe. 

What  saith  this  face,  Isotta?  —  what  to  you, 

As  to  a  gazer  chance  hath  brought  to  view? 

You    smile, —  dost    dare  ?     The    soul    beyond    your 

eyes 
Will  bid  you  risk  all  other  things  save  lies. 

ISOTTA. 

A  jewel  set  in  brass, —  yet  why,  God  knows, 
If  God  knows  anything  of  such  as  those, 
Like  me,  who  fear  you  not  as  men  know  fear, 
Being,  see  you,  so  little  and  so  dear. 
Then  lying  is  the  luxury  of  the  great, 
The  marge  of  perils  sweet.     You  dare  me  —  wait; 
Give  me  the  wax.     This  side  face  doth  relate 
More  truth  than  most,  my  lord,  may  care  to  state. 
And  yet,  not  all ;  nay,  with  strange  cunning,  hides 
122 


A    MEDAL  123 

What  little  good  or  noble  haply  bides 
For  rare  occasion.     Oh  !  you  bade  me  try 
At  truth  as  of  men  dead  beyond  reply. 
Be  sure,  my  lord,  I  could  not  lie  to  you. 
Why  did  Delilah  love  her  great  brute  Jew, 
Hated  and  loved  him?     Riddle  that,  my  lord. 

MALATESTA. 

Rare  old  Genosthos  Platon,  whom  I  stored 

In  yon  stone  tomb,  might  guess  in  vain  for  you 

Betwixt  his  dreams  of  Plato,  but  for  me, 

Too  brief  is  life  to  riddle  love  or  hate. 

The  face,  the  face, —  what  secrets  shall  it  prate 

When  I  am  dead,  and  babbling  students  claim 

In  feebler  days  to  know  who  set  his  name, 

Ensigns,  and  heraldry  on  yonder  wall, 

With  yours,  my  dame?     Dost  fear  to  tell  me  all? 

ISOTTA. 

Narrow  the  forehead;  bushy  eyebrows  set 
O'er  lizard  lids,  cross-burrowed;  hair  as  jet; 
The  nose  rapacious,  falcon-curved,  morose; 
Cheeks  wan,  high-boned,  o'er  hollows;  lips  set  close, 
Like  each  to  each,  large,  pouting,  to  men's  eyes 
Twin  slaves  of  passion,  apt  for  love  or  lies. 
They  who  shall  read  in  gentler  days  that  face 
Shall  call  you  mad,  and  wonder  at  your  race. 

MALATESTA. 

Dost  think  they  tell  my  story?     Lo,  how  sweet! 
The  swallows  flashing  down  the  sunlit  street; 
A  thrush  upon  the  window, —  he  at  least 
Must  hold  me  guileless  as  yon  pale  boy-priest. 
What  more,  fair  mistress  ?    How  he  seeks  your  eye  ! 


124  A    MEDAL 

ISOTTA. 

'Neath  this  stern  brow  forgotten  murders  lie ; 
The  red  lip-lines  confess  lust,  scorn,  and  hate; 
Dark  treacheries  'neath  those  sombre  eye-caves  wait. 
Ah,  where,  my  lord,  the  scholar's  studious  pain, 
The  zest  for  art,  the  Plato-puzzled  brain, 
The  high  ambition  for  diviner  thought, 
That  joyed  to  see  how  well  Alberti  wrought? 

MALATESTA. 

The  earthquake  scars  the  mildly  tended  soil, 
And  leaves  behind  no  trace  of  man's  slow  toil; 
Lo,  then,  at  last  you  find  some  alms  of  praise. 
Who  sees  a  man  full-faced  must  meet  his  gaze; 
This   side    face,    mark   you,    lacks   the   quick    eye's 

change. 

Unwatched,  men  see  it.     Ever  is  it  strange 
To  him  who  carries  it.     'T  is  like,  you  say. 

ISOTTA. 

My  good  lord,  so  Matteo  said  to-day. 

MALATESTA. 

Now  what  a  thing  is  custom !     You  can  scan 

This  face  and  call  me  good.     See  how  a  man 

May  scourge  through  centuries  with  the  whips  of 

shame, 
And  curse  you  with  the  thing  that  wins  him  fame. 

ISOTTA. 

Minutes  are  courtiers.     The  inflexible  years 
To  no  man  palter,  know  not  loves  nor  fears. 

MALATESTA. 

Ah !  none  but  you  would  dare  in  bitter  speech 


A    MEDAL  125 

To  front  the  Malatesta.     Doth  naught  teach 
Your  careless  tongue  to  fear  loose  talk  of  me? 

ISOTTA. 

Yet  so  the  meanest  churl  shall  prate  of  you, 
When  axe  or  spear  sets  free  your  soaring  soul, 
And  its  wild  flight  hath  won  an  earthly  goal. 

MALATESTA. 

Small  care  have  I  what  man  or  gossip  say, 
When  axe  or  spear-thrust  come  to  close  my  day. 
And  yet,  and  yet,  Isotta,  when  my  face 
Pales  on  some  stricken  field,  and  in  my  place 
Another  wooes  you, — what  wilt  say,  my  maid? 

ISOTTA. 

Much  as  the  rest.     The  dead  are  oft  betrayed. 

MALATESTA  (aside). 

Not  by  the  dead.     No  other  lips  shall  lay 
Love's  bribe  upon  your  cheek. 
(Aloud).  Another  day 

Fades  in  the  West,  behind  yon  crumbling  tower ! 
Give  me  my  Plato.     Pray,  how  stands  the  hour? 

1883. 


THE    HUGUENOT 


1686 

DRY-LIPPED  with  terror,  o'er  the  broken  flints 
Stumbling  I  ran,  my  baby  tightly  held, 
And  of  a  sudden,  coming  from  the  wood, 
Saw  the  low  moon  blood-dash  the  distant  waves, 
Felt  the  wet  grass-slope  of  the  cliff,  and  heard 
The  hungry  clamor  of  the  hidden  sea, 
Nor  dared  to  stir,  but  waited  for  the  dawn, 
And  prayed  and  wondered  why  the  beast  alone 
Some  certain  instinct  guided  in  its  flight; 
When,  God  be  praised !  I  saw  my  Louis  stand 
With  slant  hand  o'er  his  brow,  this  wise,  at  gaze  — 
Just  a  mere  outline,  none  but  I  had  seen, 
Set  'gainst  the  flitting  white  caps  of  the  sea. 
Then  I  said  softly,  "  Louis,"  and  he  turned, 
(I  think  that  he  would  hear  me  were  he  dead). 
But  as  he  quickly  drew  across  the  cliff 
I  saw  the  sudden  sadness  of  his  face 
Grow  through  the  lessening  night,  and  ere  I  moved 
A  strong  arm  caught  me,  while  he  cried  in  haste, 
"  Why  didst  thou  add  new  sorrow  to  my  flight  ? 
Who  hath  betrayed  it?  •  Surely  once  again, 
When  these  dark  days  are  over,  I  had  come 
To  fetch  thee  and  my  mother  and  the  boy, 
126 


THE   HUGUENOT  127 

Where  in  free  England  we  should  find  a  home." 
"  Home  !  Home  !  "  I  gasped.     "  Home  !  Mother  !  " 

for  the  words 

Choked  me  as  with  a  man's  grip  on  the  throat. 
But  he,  hard  breathing,  held  me  fast  and  cried, 
"Speak  quickly, —  death  is  near!"  (but  yet  his 

hand 

Put  back  my  hair  and  soothed  me).     So  I  gasped, 
"  As  from  our  preaching  in  the  wood  we  rode 
With  Jacques  the  forester,  as  is  his  way, 
He  fell  to  singing  Clement  Marot's  psalm, 
For  them  God  calleth  to  the  axe  or  rack. 
I,  liking  not  the  omen,  bade  him  cease ; 
Then  saw  a-sudden,  far  above  the  hill 
A  tongue  of  flame  leap  upward,  heard  a  shot, 
And  then  another,  till  at  last  our  Jacques, 
Bidding  me  wait,  rode  on.     An  hour  ago, 
While  yet  the  night  was  dark, —  he  came  again, 
And  thrust  our  little  one  within  my  arms, 
And  sharply  speaking,  bade  me  urge  my  horse, 
And  on  the  way  told  all." 

"Told  all  — told  what?" 

"  The  dear  old  house  is  burned,  thy  mother  dead !  " 
"Dead,  Marie?" 

"  Dead !  one  fierce  pike-thrust,  no  more  ! 
She  did  not  suffer,  Louis !  " 

"  But  the  babe  ?  " 

"  Jacques  found  him  near  the  dial,  in  the  maze." 
"  My  God  !  there  's  blood  upon  his  little  hands !  " 
"  Ay !  it  is  thought  she  had  him  in  her  arms, 


128  THE    HUGUENOT 

(Thy  mother's,  Louis !)  and  it  must  have  been 
She  crawled,  blood-spent,  to  hide  the  little  man, 
And  seeking  somewhere  help,  fell  down  and  died 
Beside  the  fountain." 

"  Oh,  be  quick !  what  more?  " 
"  This  Jacques  to  me,  as  hitherward  we  spurred, 
For,  as  we  came,  a  noise  behind  us  grew, 
And,  haply,  I  have  only  brought  you  death. 
'T  was  but  one  man,  we  guessed;  the  rest,  misled, 
Rode  toward  St.  Malo,  and  Jacques  leaving  me  — " 

"  Hush  !  listen  !  " 

"  Nay,  I  see  the  boat,  my  lord !  " 

"  Be  silent,  Marie;  kneel,  here  by  the  rock. 

Let  come  what  may,  no  word."     And  so  I  knelt, 

And  trembling  saw  the  fiery  glow  of  morn 

Shudder  like  some  red  judgment  o'er  the  sea. 

This  while  my  dear  lord  bent  and  kissed  the  babe, 

And  then  my  cheek,  my  forehead,  and  my  lips, 

Unsheathed  his  sword,  and  gazing  inland  stood, 

And  slowly  turned  the  ruffles  from  his  wrrist. 

But  then  my  heart  beat  fiercely  in  my  breast, 

For,  on  the  sward  between  us  and  the  verge, 

Leapt  of  a  sudden  from  the  pines  a  man, 

And  paused  a  breath's  time,  for  behind  him  dropped 

An  awful  cliff  wall  to  a  stepless  shore, 

And  steep  the  marge  sloped  to  it,  and  before, 

Close  at  his  breast,  he  saw  my  Louis'  blade, 

Red  like  a  viper's  tongue,  flash  in  the  morn. 

Then  said  my  sweet  lord,  speaking  tender  low, 

"  Stir  not,  dear  wife.     It  is  the  Duke,  thank  God!  " 

So,  looking  up  I  saw  that  traitor  face, 


THE    HUGUENOT 

With  eyes  of  eager  seeking,  right  and  left, 
Glance  up  the  cliff,  and  then  I  heard  a  voice 
Unlike  my  Louis',  hollow,  hoarse,  and  changed. 
"  Too  late  !  They  will  not  find  thee.  Quick,  on  guard  ! 
The  crows  shall  get  thee  graveyard  room.  On  guard  !" 
Whereat  the  Duke  turned  short.     No  better  blade : 
Thrice  have  I  seen  him,  in  our  happier  days, 
Disarm  my  Louis  in  the  armory  play. 
Whence,  for  a  moment,  as  the  rapiers  met, 
Fear  caught  and  held  me,  till  I  looked  and  saw 
My  Louis'  face  grow  passionless  and  calm, 
As  one  decreed  by  God  to  judge  and  slay. 
I  crept  apart,  yet  could  not  help  but  gaze, 
Because  the  thing  was  terrible  to  see. 
For  my  dear  lord,  his  face  unstirred  and  cold, 
Now  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  or  the  breast, 
Then  in  the  chest  an  inch  deep  as  he  shrank, 
Till,  with  each  wound,  the  traitor,  shrinking  back, 
Felt  the  sloped  margin  crumble  'neath  his  feet, 
Then  wildly  thrust,  whereon  the  rapiers  coiled 
Like  twin  steel  serpents,  and  the  Duke's  flew  wide. 
"My  God!"  I  cried,  "Save!  Save  him!"  but  my  lord 
In  silence  with  his  kerchief  wiped  his  sword, 
And  coldly  cast  the  good  lace  o'er  the  cliff. 
Speechless,  I  saw  the  stiff  knees  giving  way, 
The  long  grass  breaking  in  the  hands'  hard  clutch, 
Till  on  the  brink  —  oh,  that  was  terrible!  — 
A  face  —  a  cry  —  just  "  Marie  !  "  that  was  all ! 
And  then  I  heard  my  good  lord  sheathe  his  blade. 
Ah,  truly,  that  was  very  long  ago, 
And  why,  why  would  you  have  me  tell  the  tale? 
Sometimes  at  evening,  underneath  our  oaks, 
Here  in  our  English  home,  I  sit  and  think, 


THE    HUGUENOT 

Stirred  by  the  memory  of  a  wild,  white  face. 
Here  come  the  boys  you  praised.     My  Louis'  ?    No  ! 
And  this  grave  maid?     These  are  my  baby's  babes ! 
You  did  not  think  I  am  a  grand-dame.     Well  — 
You  're  very  good  to  say  so. 

1880. 


HOW    LANCELOT    CAME    TO    THE 

NUNNERY    IN    SEARCH    OF 

THE    QUEEN 

THREE  days  on  Gawain's  tomb  Sir  Lancelot  wept, 

Then  drew  about  him  baron,  knight,  and  earl, 

And  cried,  "  Alack,  fair  lords,  too  late  we  came, 

For  now  heaven  hath  its  own,  and  woe  is  mine: 

But  'gainst  the  black  knight  Death  may  none  avail. 

I  will  that  ye  no  longer  stay  for  me. 

In  Arthur's  realm  I  go  to  seek  the  Queen, 

Nor  ever  more  in  earthly  lists  shall  ride." 

So,  heeding  none,  seven  days  he  westward  rode, 

And  at  the  sainted  mid-hour  of  the  night 

Was  'ware  of  voices,  and  above  them  all 

One  that  he  knew,  and  trembled  now  to  hear. 

Rose-hedged  before  him  stood  a  nunnery's  walls, 

With  gates  wide  open  unto  foe  or  friend. 

Unquestioned  to  the  cloister  court  he  came, 

And  in  the  moonlight,  on  the  balcony,  saw 

Beneath  the  arches  nuns  and  ladies  stand, 

And  in  their  midst  a  cowled  white  face  he  loved, 

Whereat  he  cried  aloud,  "  Lo,  I  am  here ! 

Lo,  I  am  here ! —  I,  Lancelot,  am  here  ! 

Would  ye  I  came?     I  could  not  help  but  come." 

Spake  then  the  Queen,  low-voiced  as  one  in  pain : 


132       LANCELOT    IN    SEARCH    OF   THE    QUEEN 

"  Oh,  call  him  here,  I  pray  you  call  him  here." 

Then  lit  Sir  Lancelot  down,  and  climbed  the  stair, 

And  doffed  his  helm,  and  stood  before  the  Queen. 

But  she  that  had  great  fear  to  see  his  face : 

"  Oh,  sinless  sisters,  ye  that  are  so  dear, 

Lo,  this  is  he  through  whom  great  ills  were  wrought ; 

For  by  our  love,  which  we  have  loved  too  well, 

Is  slain  my  lord  and  many  noble  knights. 

And  therefore,  wit  ye  well,  Sir  Lancelot, 

My  soul's  health  waneth;  yet  through  God's  good 

grace 

I  trust,  when  death  is  come,  to  sit  with  Christ, 
Because  in  heaven  more  sinful  souls  than  I 
Are  saints  in  heaven;  and  therefore,  Lancelot, 
For  all  the  love  that  ever  bound  our  souls 
I  do  beseech  thee  hide  again  thy  face. 
On  God's  behalf  I  bid  thee  straitly  go, 
Because  my  life  is  as  a  summer  spent ; 
Yea,  go,  and  keep  thy  realm  from  wrack  and  war, 
For,  well  as  I  have  loved  thee,  Lancelot, 
My  heart  will  no  more  serve  to  see  thy  face ; 
Nay,  not  if  thou  shouldst  know  love  in  mine  eyes. 
In  good  haste  get  thee  to  thy  realm  again, 
And  heartily  do  I  beseech  thee  pray 
That  I  may  make  amend  of  time  mislived. 
And  take  to  thee  a  wife,  for  age  is  long." 
"  Ah  no,  sweet  madam,"  said  Sir  Lancelot, 
"  That  know  ye  well  I  may  not  while  I  breathe ; 
But  as  thou  livest,  I  will  live  in  prayer." 
"If  thou  wilt  do  so,"  said  the  Queen,  "  so  be. 
Hold  fast  thy  promise;  yet  full  well  I  know 
The  world  will  bid  thee  back."—"  And  yet,"  he  cried, 
"  When  didst  thou  know  me  to  a  promise  false? 


LANCELOT    IN    SEARCH    OF   THE   QUEEN       133 

Wherefore,  my  lady  dame,  sweet  Guinevere, 

For  all  my  earthly  bliss  hath  been  in  thee, 

If  thou  wilt  no  more  take  of  this  world's  joy, 

I  too  shall  cease  to  know  the  bliss  of  life. 

I  pray  thee  kiss  me  once,  and  nevermore." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  Queen,  "  that  shall  1  never  do. 

No  more  of  earthly  lips  shall  I  be  kissed." 

Then  like  to  one  stung  through  with  hurt  of  spears, 

Who  stares,  death-blinded,  round  the  reeling  lists, 

At  gaze  he  stood,  but  saw  no  more  the  Queen ; 

And  as  a  man  who  gropes  afoot  in  dreams, 

Deaf,  dumb,  and  sightless,  down  the  gallery  stairs 

Stumbling  he  went,  with  hands  outstretched  for  aid, 

And  found  his  horse,  and  rode,  till  in  a  vale 

At  evening,  'twixt  two  cliffs,  came  Bedevere, 

And  with  his  woesome  story  stayed  the  knight. 

At  this,  Sir  Lancelot's  heart  did  almost  break 

For  sorrow,  and  aboard  his  arms  he  cast, 

And  cried,  "  Alas  !  ah,  who  may  trust  this  world !  " 

1886. 


THE    HILL    OF    STONES: 

A    LEGEND   OF    FONTAINEBLEAU. 

WE  two,  my  guide  and  I,  through  dusty  ways 
And  formal  avenues  of  well  pruned  trees, 
Went  past  the  village  and  thy  dark  gray  walls, 
Antique,  deserted  Fontainebleau ;  and  still 
With  talk  of  him  the  shade  of  whose  despair 
Lies  on  thy  courtyard  yet,  we  loitering 
Strolled  through  the  deeper  wood,  and  found  at  last 
A  barren  space  that  crowned  a  hill's  green  slope, 
Where,  lonely  as  a  king,  a  single  oak, 
Crippled  in  boisterous  battle  with  the  winds, 
And  gay  with  leafy  flattery  of  the  spring, 
Seemed  like  an  old  man,  cheated  suddenly 
With  some  gay  dream  of  childhood's  tender  hours. 
"  Here  let  us  rest,"  he  said,  and  casting  down 
His  woodman's  staff,  set  out  upon  the  grass 
Twin  flasks  of  Leoville  and  fair  white  loaves; 
There  as  at  ease  we  lay,  and  ate  and  drank, 
My  roving  gaze  in  pleasant  wanderings  went 
Down  the  green  hill,  along  the  valley's  range. 
The  noonday  sun  hung  half  asleep  in  heaven, 
And  in  the  drowsied  wood  no  leaflet's  stir 
Broke  the  still  shadows  slumbering  on  the  ground. 
134 


THE    HILL    OF    STONES  135 

Adown  the  hill,  beside  a  brook  that  lay 
A  silver  thread,  heat-wasted, —  far  below, 
Gaunt  rocks  in  wild  confusion  tumbled  lay, 
Thick  strewn  along  the  narrowing  vale,  and  barred 
The  distant  thickets  with  their  broken  lines. 
High  on  the  further  hill,  twin  mount  to  ours, 
A  single  slab,  time-worn,  imperial,  towered, 
And  all  around  it  cumbering  the  sod 
A  time-worn  host  of  barren  rocks  was  cast 
Each  upon  each, —  as  after  battle  lie 
The  dead  upon  the  dead,  to  war  no  more, — 
Whilst  over  them  the  hot  and  curdled  air 
Shook  in  uneasy  whirls  that  broke  the  crests 
Of  distant  trees  and  hilltops  far  away. 
In  musing  wonder  tranced  I  lay  and  gazed 
Down  the  cleft  valley  o'er  the  waste  of  stones, — 
The  while  my  comrade,  stretched  upon  the  grass, 
Lay  whistling  cheerily  his  ballad  gay 
Of  good  king  Dagobert;  or  smiling  told, 
With  frequent  urging,  in  his  rough  patois, 
Some  broken  bit  of  legendary  lore. 
And  at  the  last  a  story  of  these  stones. 

A  thousand  noisy  years  ago,  't  is  said, 

Along  yon  silent  vale  at  eventide 

A  bearded  king,  grown  weary  of  the  chase, 

Rode  thoughtful  home,  but  pausing  here  awhile, 

Said:  "  When  life  palls,  and  I  no  more  can  ride 

With  lance  in  rest,  or  smite  with  gleaming  blade, 

When  sorrows  sweeten  the  near  cup  of  death, 

Then  in  this  valley's  quiet  I  will  build 

A  palace,  where  the  wise  and  old  shall  come, 

And  none  shall  talk  of  what  has  been,  and  all 


I36  THE    HILL    OF    STONES 

Shall  ponder,  with  clear  vision  looking  on 
To  that  which  is  to  be." 

Then  pensive  still 

He  turned  away,  and  westward  rode  again, 
Whilst  after  him  an  hundred  barons  came, 
And  riding  swiftly,  starred  at  intervals 
The  dark  wood  spaces  with  their  robes  of  gold. 
Next  morn  at  Fontainebleau  the  bearded  king 
Held,  'neath  the  oaks,  his  court,  when  suddenly 
A  young  knight,  breaking  through  the  outer 

guard, 

Leapt  featly  from  his  jaded  horse  and  cried, 
Like  one  whom  some  dream-wonder  spurs  to 

speech : 

"  Good  Sire,  last  night  a  lonely  man  I  slept 
Upon  the  hill  you  love;  and  where  at  eve 
The  bald  brown  summit  lay  a  dreary  waste, 
And  where  the  sun  of  yesterday  looked  down 
On  utter  solitude,  and  sowed  the  ground 
With  wild-eyed  violets  —  O  my  liege,  to-day 
There  stands  a  castle  fair  with  courts  and  towers 
And  turrets  tall  and  fretted  pinnacles 
Upgrown  by  night,  in  one  still  summer  night, 
As  if  fay-builded,  and  around  it  leap 
A  thousand  soaring  fountains,  and  the  air 
Reluctant   from  its  bowered  garden  floats 
Sweet  with  strange  odors.     Underneath  a  porch 
Of  leaf-carved  masonry,  I  saw,  my  lord, 
As  peering  through  the  thicket's  fence  I  gazed, 
The  queen  of  women  holding  wondrous  court 
Of  maidens  only  just  less  fair  than  she." 
Then  said  the  king:  "The  good  knight's  brain  is 

crazed ; 


THE    HILL   OF    STONES  X37 

Or  hath  he  dreamed?  or  do  we  live  anew 
An  age  of  magic?  " 

"  Nay,"  the  knight  replied ; 

"  I  dreamed  it  not;  "  and  smiled  his  bearded  lord, 
While  merry  laughter  shook  the  mailed  ring. 
"  Give  me,  good  Sire,  to  seek  again  the  hill, 
And  fill  me  with  the  beauty  that  doth  glow 
In  her  deep  eyes,  and  either  I  will  bring 
This  royal  woman  back  again  with  me, 
Or  if  there  be  delusion  in  my  words, 
The  dream  will  break,  and  I  ashamed  shall  come 
To  this  fair  court  no  more."     Then  as  the  king 
In  silence  bent,  he  took  his  palfrey's  rein, 
And  downward  gazing  parted  wide  the  crowd, 
And  passed  the  yielding  wood. 

Whereon  the  king: 

"The  test  is  fair;  'tis  chivalrous  and  just 
That  no  man  follow  him ;  "  and  so  with  this 
He  went  alone,  and  was  no  more  with  men. 
Along  the  valley  up  the  tufted  sward 
By  cold-eyed  statues  underneath  an  arch 
Of  swaying  fountains  silently  he  went, 
And  half  dismayed  the  rosy  hedges  broke, 
And  saw  the  lady  and  her  maiden  court. 
Then  there  was  sweet  confusion,  and  a  maze 
Of  white  and  shining  arms  in  wonder  raised, 
And  low,  quick,  modest  cries  from  girls  who  fled 
For  shelter  in  the  thickets,  or  took  flight 
Behind  their  queenly  mistress.     She  alone 
Towered,  red  and  angry,  one  foot  forward  set. 
"  O  woman  wonderful,"  he  cried  —  and  bent 
Before  the  tempest  of  her  stormy  eyes, — 
"  Send  me  not  forth  alone  for  aye,  to  hold 


THE    HILL   OF    STONES 

Thy  memory  only  like  a  dagger  sharp 

To  my  sad  heart ;  more  sweet  by  far  were  death." 

"  Go,  sir,"  she  cried;  "  what  right  hast  thou  in  me? 

Mine  only  is  my  beauty."     "  Nay,"  he  urged, 

"  Save  that  God  put  them  in  the  world  with  us, 

What  right  have  we  in  yonder  wide  estate 

Of  sun  and  sky  and  flower-haunted  sod?  " 

"  No  man  on  earth  is  peer  of  mine,"  she  said, — 

And  saying  this  her  cold  eyes  fell  on  him. 

Her  cold  eyes  fell  on  him;  and  deadly  pale, 

Bereft  of  thought,  as  one  who  gropes  along, 

He  turned  and  went,  while  scornful  laughter  rang 

From  briery  thickets  everywhere  around, 

And  chased  his  quick  uncertain  steps,  that  brake 

The  garden  paths,  till  on  the  lone  hillside 

A  sudden  coldness  fettered  limb  and  trunk, 

And  in  his  veins  the  liquid  life  grew  still, 

While  form  and  feature  shrunk,  and,  half-way  down 

On  the  drear  mountain-side,  a  weight  of  stone 

The  knight  at  evening  lay,  to  love  no  more. 

Then  quoth  the  waiting  -king  as  days  went  by : 

"  He  hath  not  as  he  promised  brought  us  back 

The  stately  mistress  of  his  fairy  hall. 

Who  is  there  here,  of  all  my  lords,  will  seek 

Yon  magic  palace,  and  with  winsome  wiles 

And  all  the  pleasant  archery  of  love, 

Fetch  me  this  woman,  captive  of  the  heart?  " 

"And  I,  and  I,  and  I,"  an  hundred  said; 

And  the  sharp  clangor  of  their  shaken  mail 

Rang  through  the  forest  ways,  as  up  they  leapt. 

So,  one  by  one,  as  the  cast  die  decreed, 

They  laughing  went,  and  were  no  more  with  men. 

But  as  the  golden  days  of  summer  fled, 


THE    HILL   OF    STONES  139 

Thick-clustered  stones  upon  the  hillside  marked 
Where  slept  the  flower  of  all  that  kingly  court, 
And  heard  no  more  the  tread  of  dainty  feet 
Hail  footfalls  round  them,  when  the  mellow  tones 
Of  music  floating  from  the  terraced  lawns 
Struck  echoes  from  their  stony  forms  that  lay 
To  wait  their  brothers  when  the  curse  should  fall. 
And  so  it  chanced,  that  as  the  hillside  grew 
Aghast  with  stony  death,  all  living  things 
Its  deadly  boundaries  fled,  and  man  and  beast 
Turned  from  it  ever  with  unquiet  steps. 
Yet  now  and  then,  when  from  a  distant  steep 
The  shepherd  gazed,  he  saw  some  fated  man 
Climb  with  quick  strides  the  hill,  and  through  the 

stones 

Depart  from  view;  and  looking  then  again, 
Or  hours  or  days  thereafter,  scared  he  saw 
The  same  man,  cold  and  palsied,  issue  forth 
And  reel  and  die,  and  smite  the  summer  grass 
With  stony  weight.     And  yet  while  men  amazed 
Stared,  wondering  that  God  and  this  could  be, 
The  palace  towers,  ivy-curtained,  stood 
Unmoved  and  stern,  as  if  a  century  long 
Their  breadth  of  shade,  with  each  day's  march, 

had  crossed 

The  garden  moats,  and  seen  the  lily  buds 
Unbosom  tenderly  to  wild  wind  wooing 
Each  wanton  morning  of  a  hundred  Junes ; 
Still  ever  through  the  silence  of  the  night 
A  thousand  fountains  trembled  high  in  air, 
And  not  a  breeze  but  rich  as  laden  bee 
Sailed  from  the  garden,  heavy  with  the  freight 
Of  endless  music,  and  the  tender  chime 


140  THE    HILL    OF    STONES 

Of  cadenced  voices,  echoed  high  or  low 
From  porch  and  hall  and  windowed  gallery. 

Again  came  June  to  lordly  Fontainebleau, 
And  once  again  on  field  and  woodland  fell 
The  lazy  lull  of  noontide  drowsiness, 
Where  in  cool  caves  of  shadows  slept  the  winds, 
Whilst  warm  and  still  the  moveless  forest  lay. 
Therein  betimes,  at  fitful  intervals, 
The  quiet  mystery  of  this  noonday  trance, 
Distant  and  grave,  a  solemn  anthem  filled, 
And,  soaring  lark-like  through  the  listening  leaves 
That  trembled  with  its  sorrow,  died  away; 
But  in  its  place  a  hymn  rose,  sweet  and  clear, 
Such  as  at  evening,  coming  from  the  wells, 
With  balanced  water- jars  upon  their  heads, 
The  maidens  sing. 

And  thus  from  leafy  shades 
A  knight  full-armed  rode,  singing  as  he  went:  — 

In  olden  days  did  Christ  decree 
Twelve  knightly  hearts  with  him  to  be, 
And  bade  them  wear  no  armor  bright 
Save  charity  and  conscience  white. 

And  through  all  lands  they  went  and  came, 
Not  covetous   of  earthly  fame, 
And  gave  the  alms  of  Christian  cheer 
To  lowly  serf  and  haughty  peer. 

For  Christ  they  fought  with  word  and  prayer, 
For  Christ  they  died, —  oh,  birthright  fair! 
Sweet  Mary  Mother,  grant  to  me 
That  I,  like  them,  pure-hearted  be. 

Then,  as  the  knight  rode  on  through  sun  to  shade, 
And  sang  how  good  deeds,  mightier  than  kings, 


THE    HILL    OF    STONES  14* 

Are  as  the  holy  accolade  of  God, 

And  bid  the  poorest  rise  a  knight  of  Christ, 

From    branch    and    thicket   came   the   birds,    and 

sailed 

Around  his  silver  casque,  and  carolling 
Awoke  the  sleeping  breezes,  till  he  rode 
With  tossing  plumes  upon  the  open  hill. 
There  all  day  long  in  silence  wrapt,  the  knight 
Knelt  on  the  green  turf  gathering  faith  and  strength  ; 
And  all  day  long  the  same  sweet  retinue 
Of  summer  songsters  circled  round  his  head. 
When  fell  the  night  he  rose,  and,  stern  and  calm, 
Unlaced  his  armor  slowly,  piece  by  piece, 
Laid  down  his  helmet  and  his  spurs  of  gold, 
Ungirt  his  sword,  and  cast  its  jewelled  weight 
Beside  his  spear  upon  the  burdened  grass. 
Then  all  unarmed  and  weaponless,  he  strode 
Adown  the  hill,  and  sad  and  silent  wound 
Its  cumbering  stones  among,  till  by  the  brook 
Kneeling  he  crossed  himself,  and  stayed  no  more, 
But  through  the  night,  white  robed  and  tranquil, 

went, 

Passed  in  among  the  wood  of  founts  that  shook 
Their  silvery  leafage  in  the  moonlight  gray, 
Crossed  with  quick  step  the  flower-beds,  and  passed 
Where  gleaming  statues  sentinelled  the  path; 
Then,  while  the  mirth  rose  wildest,  and  the  sound 
Of  merry  music  shook  the  stems  he  touched, 
He  broke  the  rose-hedge,  and  untroubled  stood 
Amidst  the  wonder  of  the  magic  court. 
Grave,  glancing  right  and  left,  quoth  he  aloud: 
"  The  peace  of  God,  which  passeth  other  peace, 
Be  on  ye  ever," —  and  so  trembling  stood, 


142  THE    HILL   OF    STONES 

Dazed  by  the  mystery  of  half-seen  limbs 

And  rosy  secrets,  chastened  by  the  moon. 

Swift  moving  through  her   shrinking  court,   the 

queen, 

A  head  above  them  towering,  flushed  with  wrath, 
Shook  from  white  neck  and  arms  the  roses  red 
That,  ere  he  came,  a  hundred  laughing  girls 
Showered  from  quick  hands,  which  on  a  sudden 

checked, 
Drooped  with  their  flowery  loads, —  and  "  Sir,"  she 

cried: 

"Dost  dream,  as  others  have,  to  woo  us  home?" 
"  Most  near  the  holy  love  of  God,"  he  said, 
"  Is  such  deep  worship  as  a  knightly  heart 
Doth  give  in  some  one  woman  unto  all; 
For  whatsoever  hath  love's  sweet  disguise 
Should  in  the  tender  eye  of  woman  win 
The  gentle  estimate  of  charity." 
"  A  priest,"  she  cried, —  and  smote  the  ground  and 

shook 

The  lingering  roses  from  her  fallen  hair; 
Upon  the  ground  the  good  knight  kneeling  prayed : 
"God  grant,"  he  murmured,  "all  my  heart  be  pure ; 
Such  love  I  give  thee,  woman,  as  thou  hadst 
For  yonder  stones,  my  brothers,  they  who  lie 
Awaiting  God  upon  the  mountain-side." 
"  Enough,"  she  cried ;  "  go,  fool,  and  share  with 

them 

Their  folly  and  their  fate."     And  so  on  him 
Her  cool-eyed  anger  fell,  and  still  and  chill 
In  the  white  moonlight  they  too  stood  and  gazed 
Each  on  the  other,  steady,  eye  to  eye, 
And  yet  he  went  not,  though  through  trunk  and 

limb 


THE    HILL    OF    STONES  *43 

The  slow  blood  crept,  and  on  his  lip  a  prayer 
Died  in  the  saying. 

"Thou  shalt  go,"  she  cried; 
And,  bending,  garnered  from  the  flowery  fence 
A  rosy  handful.     Then  in  haste  cast  back 
The  snowy  cloak  that  drifted  from  her  neck, 
And  crying  once  a  shrill  and  gnarled  phrase, 
Smote  with  the  roses  red  his  startled  face. 
On  brow  and  cheek  the  flying  roses  struck, 
And  fell  not  down  again,  for  suddenly 
Twin  petals  flashed  to  wings ;  and  they  who  looked 
Saw  bud  and  blossom  turned  to  flitting  birds, 
Which  through  the  broken   moonlight   went  and 

came, 

And  sang  sweet  carols  round  the  white-robed  knight. 
This  while  the  lady  stood  amazed  and  still 
And  all  her  court  of  wonder-fettered  maids 
Like  silence  kept  for  fear,  till  at  the  last 
The  good  knight,  marvelling,  put  out  his  hand, 
And  took  the  lady's  finger-tips,  and  went 
With  knightly  courtesy  and  whispered  prayer 
Along  the  garden  paths.     And  as  they  passed, 
Behind  their  steps  the  wind-tossed  grasses  shrunk, 
The  flowers  drooped,  the  busy  fountains  ceased, 
And  vase  and  statue,  fading  into  mist, 
Went  floating  formless  from  the  mountain-top. 
Still  on  they  moved,  she  like  a  lily  bent, 
And  all  her  women  slowly  followed  her. 
"  Here  pause,"  he  said,  and  on  the  middle  slope 
Her  trembling  maids  fell  moaning  round  their 

queen, 

A  silver  ring  upon  the  dark  green  turf. 
"Behold,  morn  waketh,"  said  the  knight;  "no  more, 


J44  THE    HILL    OF    STONES 

No  more  for  you  shall  any  morning  wake; 
I  charge  you  look  along  yon  valley  drear." 
Thereon  she  silent  raised  her  head  and  gazed 
Adown  the  hillside  thick  with  death ful  stones, 
And  felt  in  heart  and  vein  the  pulsing  blood 
Stand  still  and  curdle.     So,  the  hand  he  held 
Stayed  pointing  down  the  valley,  and  he  leapt 
Across  the  ring  of  cold  and  moveless  forms, 
And  walked  in  wonder  down  the  mountain-side, 
And  she  and  they  stayed  waiting  on  the  hill, 
A  tumbled  heap  of  dreary  rocks,  that  lay 
About  the  statue  of  their  stony  queen. 

1858. 


THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

SCENE,    A    SEA    BEACH    NEAR    RAVENNA. 
MOONLIGHT. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

CASPAR.  GELOSA,  his  wife. 

UBERTO.  EMILIA,   his    wife. 

GALILEO. 

TIME,  circa  1632. 

SCENE  I.     CASPAR  and   GELOSA.     GELOSA   playing  with 
the  sand. 

GELOSA  (letting  the  sand  fall  slowly  through  her  fin 
gers).     See,  Caspar,  how  I  hold  the  hours  of  love, 
Or  bid  the  merry  minutes  flit  away. 

CASPAR.     Time  should  be  captive  in  those  pretty  hands, 
With  none  to  ransom  him,  had  I  my  way. 
Yet  must  I  break  the  spell  and  hustle  in 
The  rough  world's  business.     Wherefore,  little  one, 
This  long  delay?     You  lacked  not  courage  once. 

GELOSA.     Still  am  I  in  the  bondage  of  my  youth ; 
All  my  life  long  I  feared  that  silent  man 
Who  came  across  the  garden  from  the  tower, 
Ate,  slept,  or  to  and  fro  athwart  the  grass 
Trod  one  same  path  with  bended  head  and  back. 
And  shunned  all  company  with  this  lower  world. 

145 


146  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

She  whose  proud  love  and  gold  alike  he  spent, 
She  who  did  love  him  as  the  worst  are  loved 
By  those  sad  hearts  who  best  know  how  to  love, 
Got  but  few  words  and  bitter ;  but  for  her 
I  had  not  cared  to  see  his  face  again. 

CASPAR.     Men    say   his   silence    guards    such    fateful 

power 

As  makes  yon  stars  the  vassals  of  his  will, 
Turns  baser  metals  into  golden  coin, 
And  wrings  all  secrets  from  the  miser  Time. 

GELOSA.     And  yet  he  knew  not  that  one  summer  night 
A  little  maid  —  Gelosa  was  her  name  — 
Had  stolen  out  beneath  his  starry  slaves 
To  learn  the  subtle  alchemy  of  love 
That  turns  all  fates  to  gold,  nor  lacks  the  power 
To  prophesy  the  sweetness  of  to-morrow. 
Methinks  he  knew  but  little,  knowing  not 
What  love  will  dare;  or  haply  knew  too  much 
For  all  the  gentler  uses  of  the  world 
When,  like  a  landlord  with  too  full  an  inn, 
He  thrust  out  Love,  that  ever  might  have  been 
The  fairest  guest  his  learning  entertained. 

CASPAR.     Nor  I  more  welcome.     I  could  laugh  to  think 
How  patiently  I  took  the  beggar's  "  Nay  " 
He  cast  in  scorn.     "  What !  wed  a  landless  squire, 
Who  spends  in  folly  what  he  won  in  blood !  — 
None  but  a  scholar  wins  my  niece's  lands." 

GELOSA.     My  lands  indeed;  if  certain  tales  be  true, 
He  married  them  these  many  years  ago. 


THE    CUP   OF    YOUTH  147 

CASPAR.     Ay,  and  may  keep  them  if  he  be  but  wise. 
Fair  over  Arno  tower  my  castle  walls, 
With  vine-clad  hillsides  rolling  to  the  plain. 
Nothing  I  owe  you  save  your  own  sweet  self. 
A  scholar,  I !     Not  troubled  will  you  be 
By  reason  of  my  studies.     I  shall  learn 
Love  from  your  eyes;  your  lips  shall  be  my  law, 
And  if  their  ripe  decisions  please  me  not, 
The  fount  of  justice  at  its  very  source 
I  shall  know  how  to  bribe.     I  brought  you  here 
Because  you  willed  it, —  ay,  and  save  for  that 
I  care  but  little  how  this  errand  thrives. 

GELOSA.     Kiss,  kiss  away  the  thoughts  that  trouble  me ; 
The  lapsing  days  will  bring  some  pleasant  chance. 

CASPAR.     Who  trusts  that  multitude  of  counsellors 
Wins  sad  unrest. 

GELOSA.  Oh,  let  my  errand  wait. 

How  very  silent  is  the  sea  to-night ! 
The  little  waves  climb  up  the  shore  and  lay 
Cool  cheeks  upon  the  ever-moving  sands 
That  follow  swift  their  whispering  retreat. 
I  would  I  knew  what  things  their  busy  tongues 
Confess  to  earth. 

CASPAR.  Let  me  confess  you,  sweet ! 

Tell  me  again  you  love  me. 

GELOSA.  Small  my  need. 

T  is  in  my  eyes;  't  is  on  my  lips;  my  heart 
Beats  to  this  music  all  the  long  day  through. 
A  bird  am  I  that  have  one  single  note 
For  song,  for  prayer,  for  thanks,  for  everything. 


14-8  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

CASPAR.     You  cannot  know  how  passing  sweet  it  is 
To  change  the  camp,  the  field,  the  storms  of  war, 
For  this  and  you;  to  watch  the  gray  moon  wane 
And  see  the  slumbrous  sea  leap  here  and  there 
To  silver  dreams. 

GELOSA.  The  hand  of  time  seems  stayed, 

And  joy  to  own  the  ever  constant  hours, 
So  full  of  still  assurance  is  the  night. 
Love  hath  the  quiet  certainty  of  heaven, 
Rich  with  the  promise  of  unchanging  years. 

[Voices  are  heard  near  by. 

CASPAR.     Hush,  my  Gelosa  !     Who  be  these  that  come? 

[Enter  GALILEO  and  UBERTO,  who  sit  down  among  the 
dunes  close  by. 

GELOSA.     My  uncle  and  his  friend,  the  Florentine. 

CASPAR.     Hark  you,  he  speaks  your  name.     He  said, 

"  Gelosa." 

He  called  you  —  was  it  Gelosetta,  love? 
Why,  I  shall  call  you  Gelosetta  too. 

GELOSA.     Distance   and   absence   leave   him   this   one 

friend, 
A  scholar  grave,  and  gentle  as  the  gentlest. 

CASPAR.     And  that  is  Galileo !     I  recall 
One  day  in  Florence  walking  with  the  Duke, 
A  man  most  studious  of  his  fellow-men, 
We  saw  this  scholar  wandering  to  and  fro 
Intent  of  gaze  where  Giotto's  campanile 


THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH  149 

Athwart  the  plaza  casts  its  length  of  shade. 
The  Duke  had  speech  with  him.     A  serious  face, 
With  eyes  that  seemed  to  search  beyond  the  earth, 
Large,  open,  steady,  like  Luini's  saints. 

GELOSA.     More  sweet  than  mine? 

CASPAR.  I  '11  tell  you  when  't  is  day. 

A  mighty  student  of  bright  eyes  am  I ; 
Now  there  I  '11  match  my  science  with  the  best. 
Those  Florentines,  who  never  want  for  wit 
To  label  love  or  hate,  say  he  's  moon-mad, 
And  hath  for  mistresses  the  starry  host 
That  wink  at  him  by  night. 

GELOSA.  Not  Solomon 

Had  half  so  many.     Yet  for  earthly  love 
He  lacks  not  time  nor  honest  appetite; 
He  never  starved  his  heart  to  feed  his  head. 
Hush !  now  he  speaks  again.    The  time  may  serve 
To  learn  my  uncle's  mood. 

GALILEO.  This  niece  of  yours  — 

UBERTO.     Not  ever  greatly  mine.     The  wayward  child 
Grew  to  the  wilful  woman,  ignorant, 
Untrained,  and  wild,  a  dreamer  by  the  sea, — 
Nor  hers  the  housewife's  knowledge.     I  have  lived 
Companionless  of  nobler  intercourse, — 
As  to  a  friend  I  speak, —  my  wife  wrapped  up 
In  household  cares  and  tendance  of  the  poor, 
Death  busy  with  my  manhood's  friends.     I  tread 
An  ever  lonelier  road. 


15°  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

GALILEO.  So  seem  all  ways 

To  him  who,  yearning  for  too  distant  good, 
Sees  not  the  sweetness  of  the  common  path. 
Life  hath  two  hands  for  those  who  fitly  live: 
With  one  it  gives,  with  one  it  takes  away ; 
The  willing  palm  still  finds  the  touch  of  love, 
And  he  alone  has  lost  the  art  to  live 
Who  cannot  win  new  friends.     Unwise  are  they 
Who  scorn  the  large  relationship  of  life. 
Yon  restless  sea,  the  sky,  the  bird,  the  flower, 
The  laugh  of  folly,  and  the  ways  of  men, 
The  woman's  smile,  the  hours  of  idleness, 
The  court,  the  street,  the  busy  market-place, — 
All  that  the  skies  can  teach,  the  earth  reveal, — 
Are  wisdom's  bread.     Alas !  the  common  world 
Hath  lessons  no  philosophy  can  spare ; 
The  tree  that  ever  spreads  its  leaves  to  heaven 
Casts  equal  anchors  'neath  the  soil  below. 
With  man  it  is  as  with  the  world  he  treads: 
No  little  stone  of  yonder  pebbled  beach 
Could  cease  to  be,  and  this  great  rolling  orb 
Feel  not  its  loss.     Enough  of  this  to-night. 
Count  me  your  gains  a  little.     Years  have  gone 
Since  last  we  met :  what  good  things  have  they  brought  ? 

UBERTO.     To-morrow  I  will  tell  you  all.     To-night 
My  mind  is  ill  at  ease ;  come,  let  us  go, 
But,  as  my  love  is  valued  by  your  own, 
Speak  not  again  of  that  unthankful  child. 


GALILEO.     And  yet  I  loved  her.     Have  it  as  you  will. 
{Exeunt  GALILEO  and  UBERTO. 


THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH  I51 

GELOSA.     O  Caspar,  said  I  not  that  age  was  hard? 
Be  but  your  youth  as  kind. 

CASPAR.  Almost  I  thank 

The  misery  that  doubly  sweetens  love. 
Strange  seemed  my  life  to  him.     To  me,  as  strange 
This  corner-pickled  shrivel  of  a  man, 
That  all  things  dreaming  never  waked  enough 
To  win  the  sanity  of  open  eyes. 
One  day  in  Rimini,  before  a  mirror, 
So  near  I  stood,  my  breath  the  image  blurred. 
Duke  Francis,  laughing,  o'er  my  shoulder  gazed; 
Said  I  was  like  some  men  he  knew,  and  went, 
And  would  not  read  the  riddle.     Now  't  is  clear. 
The  man  that  hath  no  mirror  save  himself 
Blurs  the  clear  image  conscience  shows  us  all. 
Now  for  a  schoolless,  helmet-dinted  head, 
The  guess  is  not  so  bad. —  What,  tears  again? 
Tears  for  this  man  who  in  your  childhood  scorned 
Its  glad  prerogatives  of  love  and  trust? 
A  thoughtless  falcon,  bold  and  wild  of  wing, 
Like  to  my  lover-self,  had  better  kept 
God's  pledge  to  childhood. 

GELOSA.  Nay,  no  tears  have  I 

For  him  who  cost  me  many.     But  for  her, 
The  simple,  kindly  dame  who  had  no  will 
That  was  not  his, —  I  am  more  sad  for  her, 
Because  she  never  learned  the  woman's  art 
To  traffic  with  her  sadness.     Yet  had  she 
A  childless  youth ;  the  children  of  old  age, 
Love,  solace,  cheerful  days  of  quietness, 
Dead  as  the  little  ones  she  never  knew. 


I52  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

Though  sad  at  best  the  husbandry  of  years, 

Time  in  the  happy  face  no  furrow  cuts 

That  is  not  wholesome ;  but  the  loveless  hours 

Of  uncompanioned  sorrow  and  neglect 

Make  records  sore  with  shame  as  are  the  scars 

A  master's  whip  leaves  on  the  beaten  slave. 

Has  life  no  answering  scourge  for  them  that  sin? 

CASPAR.     For  less  than  this,  ay,  for  a  moment's  wrong, 
I  have  seen  men  die  young. 

GELOSA.  Come,  let  us  go. 

The  night  has  lost  its  grace.     These  memories 
Serve  but  to  stir  dead  hates.     To  bed, —  to  bed. 
Like  his,  my  mind  is  very  ill  at  ease ; 
I  would  his  hurt  were  equal  to  my  own. 

SCENE  II.  Garden  of  a  villa  near  the  sea  and  border 
ing  on  a  road.  Enter  UBERTO,  who  walks  to  and 
fro.  Night  of  the  day  after  the  last  act. 

UBERTO.     For  gold,  for  lands,  for  any  bribe  of  power 
The  soldier  wastes  the  substance  of  the  poor, 
Sets  ravage  free  and  spills  the  innocent  blood, 
Yet  sleeps  as  soundly.     Shall  I  hesitate, 
Checked  by  the  memory  of  an  outworn  love, 
A  thoughtless  woman  and  a  foolish  girl? 
My  friend  —  but  he  has  won  the  laurel  crown. 
Dim  continents  of  thought  before  me  lie; 
Their  harvests  wait  the  vigor  of  the  scythe, 
While  in  my  heart  the  tardy  blood  of  age 
Unequal  throbs.     The  mind,  as  tremulous 
As  these  thin  hands,  has  lost  its  certain  grasp ; 


THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH  153 

Pass,  ye  weak  phantasies  that  bar  my  way, — 
Children  of  habit, —  I  will  do  this  thing ! 


Enter  EMILIA. 

EMILIA  (aside).     Now  help  me,  Mary  Mother,  in  my 

need. 
Perhaps  some  memory  of  our  joyous  youth  — 

UBERTO.     What,  not  abed  ? 

EMILIA.  I  cannot  sleep  of  late. 

As  if  life  were  not  long  enough,  the  days 
Live  through  the  night,  and  mock  with  time's  excess. 

UBERTO.     Why  vex  my  soul  with  that  of  which  each 

hour 
Tells  the  sad  tale? 

EMILIA.  Let  us  forget,  Uberto  ! 

Just  half  a  century  gone,  when  you  and  I, 
Just  fifty  years  ago  this  very  night, 
Walked  'neath  the  flowering  locust,  how  I  blessed 
The  kindly  shade  that  hid  my  blushing  cheek. 
Not  redder  was  the  moon  that  night  of  May. 

UBERTO.     Still  shall  it  mock  the  cheek  of  other  loves 
When  you  and  I  are  dead.     Oh,  cruel  time ! 
You  lost  the  plaything  of  a  pretty  face ;  — 
What  was  your  loss  to  mine?     What  comfort  lies 
In  useless  babble  o'er  a  squandered  past? 
Lo,  when  the  eager  spirit,  worn  with  toil, 
Has  gathered  knowledge,  won  its  lordliest  growth, 
This  robber  comes  to  plunder  memory 


154  THE   CUP   OF   YOUTH 

And  lash  with  needless  anguish  to  the  grave. 
We  scorn  the  miser  who  in  death  laments 
The  gold  he  cannot  carry;  let  us  jest 
At  him  whose  usury  of  knowledge  stops. 

EMILIA.     How   know   you   that   it   doth?     To   me   it 

seems 

As  if  no  office  of  our  mortal  frame 
Has  more  the  signet  of  immortal  use 
Than  just  this  common  gift  of  memory. 
Forgive  the  thoughts  that  come  I  know  not  whence, — 
I  think  our  Galileo  said  it  once, — 
The  ghosts  that  haunt  the  peaceful  hours  of  night 
Are  not  more  unaccountable  of  man 
Than  the  dead  thoughts  of  life  that,  at  a  touch, 
A  taste,  an  odor,  rise,  we  know  not  whence, 
To  scare  us  with  the  unforgotten  past. 
Your  knowledge  is  not  like  the  miser's  gold, 
For  this  world's  usage  only.     Yet,  perchance, 
'T  is  like  in  this,  that  what  it  was  on  earth, 
Self-ful,  or  helpful  of  another's  pain, 
May  set  what  interest  on  that  gathered  hoard 
The  soul  falls  heir  to  in  a  world  to  come. 

UBERTO.     Alas,  were  I  but  sure  that  after  death 
I  still  should  carry  all  life's  nobler  seed 
To  ripen  largely  under  other  skies, 
I  should  not  mourn  at  death. 

EMILIA.  Why  is  it,  friend, 

That  I,  for  whom  this  life  so  little  holds, 
Should  in  its  cup  of  emptied  sweetness  find 
The  pearl  content,  and  with  calm  vision  see 


THE   CUP   OF    YOUTH  155 

The  stir  of  angel  wings  'neath  death's  black  cloak? 
And  life,  ah,  life  might  still  be  sweet  to  me! 
O  husband,  had  you  been  as  some  have  been, 
We  might  have  lived  a  length  of  tranquil  days, 
With  love  slow  moving  through  its  autumn-time 
To  merge  in  loving  friendship,  and  at  last 
To  find  the  cloistered  peace  of  patient  age, 
Tranquil  and  passionless,  and  so  have  walked 
Like  little  children  through  life's  wintry  ways 
To  meet  what  fate  the  kindly  years  decreed. 

UBERTO.     Alas,  the  best  is  ever  to  be  won ! 
There  is  no  rose  but  might  have  been  more  red, 
There  is  no  fruit  might  not  have  been  more  sweet, 
There  is  no  sight  so  clear  but  sadly  serves 
To  set  the  far  horizon  farther  still. 

[Voices  are  heard  on  the  road  back  of  them. 

EMILIA  (aside}.  Heart  of  my  hearts  !  It  is  the  little  one ! 
My  Gelosetta !     Will  he  know  the  voice? 

GELOSA  (on  the  road  as  she  goes  by  with  CASPAR). 
Can  the  rosebud  ever  know 
Half  how  red  the  rose  will  grow? 
Can  the  May-day  ever  guess 
Half  the  summer's  loveliness? 

UBERTO.     What  voice  is  that? 

EMILIA.  Some  wandering  village  girl. 

UBERTO.     No,  't  was  Gelosa's. 


156  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

EMILIA.  Would  indeed  it  were ! 

Ah,  that  were  joy !     Alas,  't  is  but  the  girl 
I  helped  last  winter,  one  the  plague  cast  out 
With  other  Florentines.       (Aside.)  Would  I  could  see! 

UBERTO.    Come  back  again  to  drain  our  meagre  purse 
Ay,  there  's  the  man, —  a  woman  and  a  man. 

A  man's  voice  sings. 

'T  is  better  to  guess  than  to  see, 
'T  is  better  to  dream  than  to  be. 

The  best  of  life's  loving 

Is  lost  in  the  proving, 
'T  is  better  to  dream  than  to  be. 

The  joy  of  love's  sweetness 

Is  lost  with  completeness, 
'T  is  better  to  dream  than  to  be. 

EMILIA.     A  pair  of  lovers !     She  has  found  her  mate. 

UBERTO.     Already  doth  your  cynic  lover  sing 
The  death  and  funeral  of  love  and  trust. 
Thrice  happy  these  with  wingless  instincts  born. 
Perhaps  is  best  the  woman's  ordered  life, 
Market  and  house,  the  husband  and  the  child. 

EMILIA.     Mother  of  God!  and  I  that  have  no  child! 
UBERTO.     St.  Margaret !  but  you  women-folk  are  tender. 

Behind  a  hedge  CASPAR  and  GELOSA,  while  UBERTO 
continues. 

Forget  my  haste,  Emilia;  all  my  mind 
Dwells  on  the  nearness  of  one  fateful  hour. 


THE    CUP   OF    YOUTH  157 

EMILIA.     Again  the  dream  that  through  these  weary 

years 

Has  turned  your  life  from  God,  and  home,  and  me, — 
To  win  for  you  that  doubtful  cup  of  youth. 
Think  yet,  Uberto,  on  the  thing  you  do; 
It  cannot  be  that  I,  grown  drear  and  old, 
The  very  death-tide  oozing  round  my  feet, 
Shall  see  you  glad  and  young.     It  cannot  be 
Earth  holds  for  me  that  agonizing  hour. 

[UBERTO  remains  silent. 

CASPAR  (to  GELOSA  apart).   No  answer  hath  he.    Now 

speak  you  to  him. 

It  seems  the  wise  man  hath  no  wiser  dreams 
Than  fools  are  heir  to. 

GELOSA.  Heard  you  all  he  said? 

CASPAR.     Ay,  all  I  cared  to  hear.     Come,  let  us  go. 
Seek  you  his  wife  alone.     Forget  this  fool. 

GELOSA.     Didst  hear,  my  Caspar?     Can  it  be  he  owns 
A  cup  which,  drained,  shall  fetch  his  youth  again? 
Men  say  the  thing  has  been  in  other  days. 
To  leave  her  old  and  withered  were  to  add 
A  crime,  unthought  of  yet,  to  sin's  dark  list. 

CASPAR.     Less  base  it  were  to  stab  her  where  she  stands. 

[Exit  EMILIA  silently. 

GELOSA.     Hush  !  she  has  left  him, —  left  him.     Were 

I  she, 

I  would  crawl  out  at  midnight  to  his  tower. 
Deep  would  I  drain  the  damned  cup  of  life, 
And  wander  back  a  maiden  fair  and  young, 


158  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

To  curse  his  age  with  jealous  misery. 
Or  I  would  kill  him  as  he  lay  asleep, 
And  keep  him  old  forever, —  that  would  I. 

CASPAR.  ,  Now  here  's  a  wicked  lady.     Should  I  chance 
To  fall  in  love  with  larger  length  of  days, 
I  shall  be  very  careful  of  my  diet. 
Comes  now  the  Florentine.     The  play  were  good, 
Were  you  not  in  the  plot.     They  say  in  Florence 
The  Pope  will  have  it  that  this  man  of  stars 
Shall  spread  no  gossip  as  to  worlds  that  roll, 
Nor  play  at  Joshua  with  the  Emperor  Sun. 
To  be  so  wise  that  all  the  world  's  a  fool 
Might  breed  uneasy  life. 

GELOSA.  Perhaps;  and  yet, — 

You  know  we  little  women  will  have  thoughts, — 
I  was  but  thinking  that  for  one  to  own 
A  soul  for  actions  great  beyond  compare, 
A  mind  for  thoughts  that  have  the  native  flight 
Of  eaglets  rising  from  the  parent  nest, 
To  soar  so  high  they  cast  no  earthward  shade, 
Might  bring  a  very  childhood  of  content. 

CASPAR.     There  's  ever  music  in  your  Umbrian  heart 
That  lived  where  Dante  died.     Yet  vain  the  thought ; 
For  me  the  world  may  skip,  or  stop,  or  turn 
Back-somersaults  as  likes  the  blessed  Pope. 
Where  got  you,  love,  these  riddles  of  the  brain, 
These  comments  on  a  world  you  never  knew? 

GELOSA.     A   certain   soldier   taught   me.     Ah,   you 
smile ! 


THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH  159 

To  greatly  love  is  to  be  greatly  wise. 

God  were  less  wise  were  He  not  also  love. 

Ah,  there  's  a  riddle  only  love  can  read ! 

Enter  GALILEO.     To  UBERTO,  still  seated. 

GALILEO.     Far  have  I  sought  you  through  the  ilex 

grove, 
Among  Emilia's  roses,  in  your  tower. 

UBERTO.     My  tower  —  you  saw  — 

GALILEO.  Saw  nothing.  (Aside.)  He  distrusts  me. 

UBERTO.     Forgive  me.     You  shall  see,  shall  hear,  to 
night. 

GALILEO.     Those  many  years  that  I,  a  jocund  lad, 
To  you,  my  elder,  turned  for  counsel,  help, 
Came  back  to  me  to-day.     You  were  more  kind 
Than  brothers  are.     Ah,  happy,  studious  hours ! 
What  was  the  Pope  to  me,  or  I  to  him? 
A  cardinal  was  as  the  farthest  star, 
Outside  the  orbit  of  my  hopes  and  fears. 
I  came  to  you  to  share  some  idle  days, 
To  get  again  within  your  life  of  thought, 
To  question  and  be  questioned. 

UBERTO.  Wherefore  not? 

GALILEO.     A  messenger  who  followed  me  with  haste 
Bids  me  to  Rome  to  answer  as  I  may. 
My  sin  you  know. 

UBERTO.  What  answer  can  you  make? 


l6o  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

GALILEO.     Alas,  it  moves !     This  ever-patient  globe 
Moves,  with  the  Pope  and  me;  would  move  without. 
Could  I  but  summon  God  to  answer  them ! 
If  He  has  whispered  in  my  listening  ear 
This  secret,  guarded  since  the  morn  of  time, 
How  shall  I  say  I  know  not  it  nor  Him? 
A  man  may  love  or  not,  rejoice  or  not, 
May  hate  or  not,  but  what  he  thinks  is  sped 
In  word-winged  arrows  of  eternal  flight. 

UBERTO.     And  you,  the  archer,  you  who  loosed  the 

string, 

What  harm  if  you  should  say  this  was  not  yours?  — 
This  troubling  doctrine  long  ago  was  born; 
Sages  in  Egypt  knew  it.     Or,  at  need, 
Say  that  the  world  is  stiller  than  a  snail. 
Say  what  you  will,  but  live  to  draw  anew 
That  bow  of  thought  which  you  alone  can  draw. 

GALILEO.     Death  is  more  wise  than  any  wisest  thought 
The  living  man  can  think ;  death  is  more  great 
Than  any  life;  and  as  for  that  stern  hour 
I  meet  in  Rome  next  week,  I  know  not  now 
How  I  shall  judge  my  judge. 

UBERTO.  The  fate  I  fear, 

I  fear  for  you,  but  would  not  for  myself. 
Ay,  at  this  hour  would  I  change  lives  with  you; 
For  come  what  may,  chains,  prison,  rack,  or  axe, 
You  will  have  lived  so  largely  that  no  fate 
Can  pain  your  age  with  sense  of  unfulfilment. 
But  I  have  all  things  willed,  yet  nothing  done. 


THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH  l6l 

GALILEO.     I  cannot  think  your  solitary  years 
Have  won  us  nothing,  as  you  seem  to  say. 
My  hours  are  few  and  I  go  hence  to-morrow 
Perhaps  no  more  to  hear  a  friendly  voice, 
Or  guess  the  starry  secrets  of  the  night. 

UBERTO.     Be  patient  with  me.     Many  a  year  ago, 
At  twilight  walking  by  the  darkened  sea, 
The  sudden  glory  of  a  broadening  thought 
Smote  me  with  light  as  if  through  doors  cast  wide 
To  one  in  darkness  prisoned.     Then  I  saw 
Dimly,  as  if  at  dusk,  vast  open  space 
Of  things  long  guessed,  but  waiting  fuller  light. 
What  could  I  but  despair?     The  hand  and  brain 
No  longer  did  my  errands.     There  was  set 
A  task  for  youth  and  vigor.     Steadily 
I  gave  my  age  to  win  the  gift  of  youth, 
That  youth  might  help  my  quest. 

That  charm  I  sought 
Which  vexed  the  soul  of  old  philosophy. 
I  won  it,  friend !     To-night  I  drain  this  cup. 
Like  autumn  leaves  the  withered  years  shall  fall, 
And  sudden  spring  be  mine.     With  wisdom  clad, 
With  knowledge,  not  of  youth,  assured  of  time, 
I  shall  speed  swiftly  to  my  certain  goal. 
The  midnight  calls  my  steps  to  yonder  tower, 
Where  youth,  the  bride,  awaits  my  joy's  delay. 
You  have  my  secret.     Oh,  my  God,  if  youth, 
This  second  youth,  should  mock  me  like  the  first, 
And  bring  no  larger  gain ! 

GALILEO.  In  this  wild  search 

Great  minds  have  perished.     Where  you  think  to  win, — 


162  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

In  this  the  masters  failed.     Their  wasted  thoughts 
Are  in  huge  volumes  scattered.     It  may  be. 
The  strange  is  only  what  has  never  been, 
And  every  century  gives  the  last  the  lie. 
But  if  't  is  so,  there  's  that  within  your  cup 
Might  stay  the  wiser  hand.     Ay,  if  't  is  so ! 

UBERTO.     If?  if  'tis  so?     It  is!     Not  vain  the  work 
That  filled  these  longing  years.     For  no  base  end 
These  wasting  vigils  and  these  anxious  days. 
The  gains  I  win  shall  lessen  human  pain. 
One  re-created  life  to  man  shall  bring 
Uncounted  centuries  in  the  gathering  sum. 

GALILEO.     I  too  am  of  that  sacred  guild  whose  creed, 
Before  Christ  died  or  Luke  the  healer  lived, 
Taught  temperance,  honor,  chastity,  and  love. 
I  neither  doubt  the  harvest  nor  the  power 
To  reap  its  glorious  fruit.     And  yet  —  and  yet  — 
If  the  strong  river  of  your  flowing  life 
You  shall  turn  back  to  be  again  the  brook, 
Is  't  natural  to  think  't  will  float  great  ships, 
Or  with  its  lessened  vigor  turn  the  wheel? 
Enough  of  me.     I  go  to  meet  my  fate. 
Would  I  could  stay ! 

UBERTO.  Ah !  when  in  Pisa's  dome 

You  watched  the  lamp  swing  constant  in  its  arc, 
You  gave  to  man  another  punctual  slave, 
And  bade  it  time  for  us  the  throbbing  pulse ; 
Joyful  I  guessed  the  gain  for  art  and  life. 
Not  that  frail  English  boy  Fabricius  taught, 
Not  sad  Servetus,  nor  that  daring  soul, 


THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH  163 

Our  brave  Vesalius,  e're  had  matched  your  power 
To  read  the  riddles  of  this  mortal  frame. 
And  then  you  left  us.     Would  our  strange  machine 
Had  kept  your  toil,  and  cheated  yon  fair  stars ! 

GALILEO.     We  do  but  what  we  must.     Some  instinct 

guides. 

To-night,  when  all  the  morrow  world  seems  dim 
And  life  itself  a  thing  of  numbered  hours, 
With  clearing  vision  still  for  you  I  doubt. 
Life  hath  its  despot  laws.     You  more  than  I 
Know  all  their  tyrant  rigor.    Tempt  it  not, 
Lest  failure,  anguish,  lurk  within  the  cup. 
Think  sanely  of  this  venture;  let  it  pass. 
Fill  full,  God  helping,  all  the  time  He  leaves. 
Set  'gainst  the  darkness  of  death's  nearing  hour 
In  wholesome  light  all  human  action  shines. 
This  dream  is  childlike;  you  will  wake  to  tears. 
Ask  of  your  life  if  you  have  life  deserved. 
What  did  you  with  the  gift?     You  had  of  it 
All  that  another  hath,  or  long  or  short. 
Not  time,  but  action,  is  the  clock  of  man. 
I  should  go  happier  hence  if  I  could  set 
Your  fatal  cup  aside.     Nay,  sorrow  not; 
Thank  God  for  me.     I  have  not  vainly  lived. 
Truth  have  I  served,  and  God,  in  serving  her: 
That  heritage  is  deathless  as  Himself. 
Something  the  thinker  of  the  poet  hath ; 
Our  Dante  was  no  mean  philosopher : 
With  prophet  eyes  I  see  a  freer  day, 
When  thought  shall  mock  at  Kaiser  and  at  Pope. 
How  can  they  think  to  chain  the  viewless  mind, 
Which  is  the  very  life  within  the  life, 


164  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

And  in  the  irresponsible  hours  of  sleep 
Brings  thought  unto  fruition  ?     Yea,  ethereal ! 
Of  all  God's  mysteries  most  near  to  Him; 
Instinctively  creative,  like  the  woman, 
Pledged  by  conception's  joy  to  labor's  toil. 
Grieve  not  for  me.     All  that  is  best  shall  live. 
There  is  no  rack  for  thought;  no  axe,  no  block, 
Can  silence  that. 

UBERTO.  But  what,  dear  friend,  if  I 

Should  bid  you  laugh  at  pope  or  cardinal? 
Take  you  this  cup  of  mine.     Take  this  and  live. 
In  youth's  disguise  lie  safely,  freedom,  life. 

GALILEO  (aside}.     Not  stranger  in  its  orbit  moves  my 

world 

Than  man,  its  habitant.     Why,  here  is  one 
Could  squander  years  and  cheat  a  woman's  love, 
Yet  turn  to  offer  this.     Not  I,  indeed ! 
(Aloud.)  Life  has  been  very  dear  to  me,  Uberto, 
For  that  it  has  and  that  it  has  not  been. 
How  many  in  their  tender  multitude 
The  cobweb  ties  of  friendship,  labor,  love, 
I  knew  not  till  this  cruel  storm  of  fate 
Did  thread  them  thick  with  jewels  numberless. 
And  yet  life  owns  no  bribe  would  bid  me  back 
To  live  it  o'er  anew.     I  can  but  thank  you. 

UBERTO.     Is  it  only  they  who  have  no  life  of  worth 
Would  live  it  o'er  again? 

GALILEO.  That  is  not  all. 

Vainly  and  long  would  we  have  talked  of  it 
In  other  days.     No  life  is  what  it  seems. 


THE    CUP   OF    YOUTH  165 

If  thought  were  man's  whole  company  in  life, 

Who  would  not  live  it  o'er?     But  from  our  side 

Friends,  comrades,  fall  and  torture  us  with  loss. 

Who  is  there  born  would  will  to  live  again 

Such  anguish  as  the  happiest  have  known? 

This  is  the  heart's  half  only;  more  there  is. 

But  the  night  wastes.  [Rises. 

UBERTO.  To-morrow  you  go  hence? 

Write  me  from  Rome.     Before  the  day  is  spent 
I  shall  have  won  or  lost.     Good-night,  good  friend. 

[Exeunt  both. 

CASPAR.     These  learned  folks  are  not  more  gay  to  hear 
Than  Lenten  priests.     I  gave  their  riddles  up 
This  half-hour  since.     And  you? 

GELOSA.  I  heard  it  all. 

Love,  friendship,  reason,  all  alike  are  vain. 

CASPAR.     Had  I  a  moment  in  his  secret  den, 
That  draught  of  his  should  give  eternal  life 
To  weeds  that  rot  around  the  moat  below. 

[GELOSA  whispers. 
The  jest  were  good.     Is  there  no  peril  in  it? 

GELOSA.    None,  Caspar.    Wait  for  me  beside  the  gate. 
Quick,  ere  the  chance  be  lost !     'T  is  past  eleven. 
Oh,  he  will  like  my  jest.     Come,  this  way,  come! 


166  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

SCENE  III.  Stairway  of  the  tower,  where  EMILIA  sits 
weeping  at  the  door  of  the  astrologer's  laboratory,  a 
small  lamp  beside  her. 

EMILIA.  Though  he  should  kill  me,  I  will  wait  for  him. 
To  die  were  easy,  if  to  die  would  stay 
His  hand  from  wrong.     Alas !  too  sure  it  is, 
Alive  or  dead,  I  nothing  am  to  him. 
Who  is  it  comes?     Say,  is  it  you,  Uberto? 

GELOSA  comes  up  the  stairs. 

GELOSA.    Oh,  mother,  it  is  I,  your  little  one ! 
Friends,  husband,  wealth,  all  that  life  hath  to  give, 
Are  mine  to-day.     Come  to  my  Tuscan  home. 
The  flowers  you  love  watch  for  you  on  the  hills. 
My  children  shall  be  yours.     My  good  lord  waits 
Our  coming  at  the  gate.     Leave,  leave  this  man. 

EMILIA.     I  cannot,  child. 

GELOSA.  Then  will  I  talk  with  him. 

For  this  we  came  from  Florence.     Once  again, 
I  would  be  sure  his  will  is  as  of  old. 
Beside  the  tower  my  good  lord  waits  for  me. 

EMILIA.     Vain  is  your  errand,  child. 

GELOSA.  Yet  must  I  try; 

(Aside.}     The  equal  years  give  me  at  last  my  turn. 
(Aloud.}     Is  the  door  barred? 

EMILIA.  Nay,  but  I  dare  not  enter. 


THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH  1 67 

GELOSA.     Not  long  the  thing  you  fear  shall  vex  your 

soul. 

Come  with  me.     Spill  the  cursed  cup,  or  wreck 
With  wholesome  fire  this  chamber  of  your  fear. 

EMILIA.     Who  has  betrayed  his  secrets? 

GELOSA.  He  himself. 

Hid  by  the  ilex  hedge  I  heard  it  all. 
Wept  with  you,  for  you ;  heard  your  tender  plea. 
Of  other  make  am  I.     Give  me  your  ring. 
You  used  to  say  I  had  your  sister's  voice, 
Twin  to  your  own. 

EMILIA.  What  would  you  say  to  him? 

What  do  to  him?     You  cannot  mean  him  ill. 

GELOSA.     Not  I,  indeed.     Hark !  there  's  a  voice 

without. 

Trust  me  a  little.     Quick !  the  ring,  the  ring ! 
No  other  hope  is  left.     Give  me  the  ring ! 

EMILIA.     You   will   not   harm  him?     I   shall   have   it 

back? 
He  gave  it  me  the  day  we  were  betrothed. 

GELOSA.     A  goodly  half  of  this  world's  misery 
Is  born  of  woman's  patience.     Could  you  live 
From  that  to  this? 

EMILIA.  What  can  a  woman  else? 

GELOSA.     What  else?     Naught   now.     The   ring,   and 

have  no  fear ! 

[Takes   her   hand   and   removes   the   emerald   ring, 
which  is  yielded  reluctantly. 


168  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

Alas,  poor  withered  hand !  how  dear  thou  art, 
And  sweet  with  use  of  bounty ! 

Quick,  the  lamp: 
And  wait  for  me  upon  the  upper  stair.  [Urges  her  hastily. 

EMILIA.     Nay,  tell  me  more.     I  am  afraid,  Gelosa. 

GELOSA.     Of  me  who  love  you?    There,  a  kiss;  good- 

by. 
And  stir  not,  if  you  love  or  him  or  me. 

[GELOSA  opens  the  door,  and  with  the  lamp  in  her  hand 
enters  the  room.  EMILIA  ascends  the  upper  staircase. 

There  may  be  too  much  sweetness  in  a  woman. 
A  little  soured  on  the  shadowed  side 
My  Tuscan  peaches  are. 

Now  what  a  den ! 

A  winter  wealth  of  kindling  in  old  books. 
Bones,  and  a  skull  —  gay  vipers,  slimy  things, 
A  crocodile  that  hath  an  evil  eye.  [Crosses  herself. 

And  dust,  ye  Saints !  but  here  's  a  long  day's  work. 

[Lifts  a  bell  glass  from  a  small  Venice  goblet  con 
taining  a  transparent  fluid. 

Around  the  rim  twin  serpents  writhe  in  coils. 

[Reads  the  inscription  below  them. 

Ex  morte  vitam.     Life  is  child  of  death. 

Is  this  in  truth  the  draught  shall  make  man  young? 

Now  should  I  drink,  it  were  a  merry  jest 

To  find  myself  a  baby  tumbling  round, 

Athirst  for  mother's  milk.     Not  I,  indeed. 

[Empties  cup  on  the  floor,  and  refills  it  with  water. 
Blows  out  the  light  and  veils  herself. 


THE    CUP   OF    YOUTH  169 

The  moon  is  quite  enough.     Will  he  be  long? 
Now,  kindly  uncle,  for  this  pretty  play. 

[She  conceals  herself  in  a  corner.     Enter  UBERTO. 

UBERTO.     At  last,  't  is  near.     The  stairs  my  constant 

feet 

Have  worn  with  many  steps  more  toilsome  grow. 
The  hounds  of  time  are  on  their  panting  prey; 
I  wait  no  longer.     No  man  owns  to-morrow. 
To-morrow  is  the  fool's  to-day.     Ah,  soon 
I  shall  go  gaily  tripping  down  the  hill, 
Glad  as  a  springtide  swallow  on  the  wing, 
A  man  new  born. —  Nay,  this  is  like  to  death. 
Why  should  I  falter  here?     We  both  are  old. 
Soon  in  the  common  way  our  steps  would  part. 
And  to  be  young ;  to  feel  the  sinews  strong, 
Eye,  ear,  and  motion  quick,  the  brain  all  life, — 
The  visions  of  my  manhood  round  me  whirl, 
White  limbs,  red  lips,  and  love's  delirious  dream, 
The  passion  kiss  of  wine,  the  idle  hours 
Unmissed  from  youth's  abounding  heritage. 
Off,  off,  ye  brutal  years  that  gnaw  our  age ! 
Come,  joy!  come,  life! — life  at  the  full  of  flood! 

[Pauses. 

Birth  is  not  ours.     We  are,  and  that  is  all. 
Death  is  not  ours.     We  die,  and  that  is  all. 
This  stranger  birth  that  waits  upon  my  will, 
Ay,  this  is  mine  alone.     The  herd  of  men 
Are  born  and  die.     One  sole  ignoble  lot 
Awaits  them  all.     This  none  can  share  with  me. 
Auspicious  planets  shine  upon  the  hour. 

[Takes  the  hour-glass. 


17°  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

Swift  waste  the  sands.     So  much  of  age  is  left. 
Uncounted  memories  of  things  long  lost 
Leap  to  my  view,  as  if  to  one  who  stands 
Beside  the  waif-thronged  surges  of  the  deep, 
And  sees  its  dead  roll  passive  to  his  feet, 
Its  pearls,  its  weeds,  its  wrecks. 

So  let  it  end. 
[Fills  up  the  glass  with  wine. 

Nor  fear,  nor  friend,  nor  love  shall  hinder  me. 

[Drinks. 

Will  it  be  swift?  or  will  the  change  be  like 
The  wonder  work  of  spring? 
[Lights  a  small  lamp,  and  examines  his  face  in  a  mirror. 

A  ghastly  face ! 
Is  this  the  earthquake  agony  of  change? 

[GELOSA,  still  veiled,  advances. 

GELOSA.     Change    that    will    never    come.     You    that 

would  cheat 

A  life-worn  love  of  company  to  death, 
Take  the  stern  answer  of  a  tortured  soul. 
You  drained  my  cup  of  life,  and  cast  aside 
The  poor  mean  vessel.     I,  Emilia,  stole 
Your  cup  of  life.     Mine  is  the  youth  you  craved, 
Mine  the  gay  dream  of  girlhood's  rosy  joy, 
Mine  once  again  the  wooing  lips  you  kissed 
When  you  and  I  were  young.     Ah,  sweet  is  youth  ! 
Go,  thieving  dotard,  to  a  loveless  grave! 

[UBERTO  staggers  forward,  ivith  the  lamp  in  his  hand. 

UBERTO.     My  wife,  Emilia?     No,  not  my  Emilia. 


THE    CUP   OF    YOUTH  I?1 

GELOSA.     Nay,  touch  me  not !     And  is  your  memory 

dead? 

Why,  even  I  some  dim  remembrance  keep. 
Take  back  this  ring,  this  pledge  of  endless  love. 

[UBERTO  receives  it. 

UBERTO.     Her  ring  —  your  ring  —  Emilia  ! —  Lost, 

lost,  lost ! 

Life,  honor,  fame,  and  youth.     Emilia,  wife, 
Speak  kindlier  to  me.     Speak,  oh,  speak  again ! 
Your  voice  is  like  an  echo  from  the  past. — 
What  devil  taught  you  this?  [Advances. 

GELOSA.  Off,  off,  old  man  ! 

What  has  a  girl  to  do  with  palsied  age? 
I  '11  be  a  daughter  to  your  feebleness, 
And  fetch  your  crutch,  and  set  you  in  the  sun, 
And  get  me  lovers  kin  to  me  in  years. 

UBERTO.     Black  Satan  take  your  kindness  !     Yet 

have  I 
The  strength  to  kill  you  !     You  shall  die  for  this ! 

[Seizes  her. 

GELOSA.     What  ?—  feeble  fool ! 
[Pushes  him  away;  he  falls  and  remains  on  the  floor. 

UBERTO.  This  is  not  my  Emilia. 

Help,  help,  without  there  !     Help  ! 

GELOSA.  Come  in, —  come  in  ! 

Well  have  I  paid  a  fool  with  folly's  coin. 

EMILIA  enters  and  runs  to  lift  her  husband. 


I72  THE    CUP    OF    YOUTH 

EMILIA.     Ilf  have  you  done,  and  cruel  I  have  been. 
Oh,  you  have  slain  my  love ! 

GELOSA.  Not  I,  in  truth. 

UBERTO.     Out,  lying  baggage !     Now  I  know  you 
well. 

GELOSA.     Come  you  with  me,  dear  mother  of  my  love. 
Leave  we  this  base  old  man.     My  husband  waits. 

EMILIA.     Get  hence !    I   never   loved  you.     He  knew 

best. 

Pray  God  I  see  no  more  the  wicked  face 
That  cheated  him  and  me.     Begone,  I  say ! 

\Ex\t  GELOSA. 
1888. 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    ROSES 


AT  Venice,  while  the  twilight  hour 

Yet  lit  a  gray-walled  garden  space, 

I  saw  a  woman  fair  of  face 
Pass,  as  in  thought,  from  flower  to  flower. 

The  roses,  haply,  something  said, 

For  here  and  there  she  bent  her  head, 
Till,  startled  from  their  hidden  nest 
In  the  covert  of  her  breast, 

Blushes  rose,  like  fluttered  birds, 

At  those  naughty  rosy  words. 
One  need  not  wise  as  Portia  be 
To  guess  love  held  her  heart  in  fee. 

Prudently  a  matron  rose 

For  her  confidence  she  chose : 
Whispering,  she  took  its  breath, 
And,  for  what  its  fragrance  saith, 

Smiling  knelt,  and  kissed  it  twice; 

Caught  it,  held  it,  kissed  it  thrice. 
Ah  !  her  kiss  the  rose  had  killed ; 

Wrecked,  in  tender  disarray 

On  the  ground  its  petals  lay, 
All  its  autumn  fate  fulfilled. 

Swiftly  from  her  paling  face 

Fell  the  rosy  flush  apace. 


174  MY    LADY    OF    THE    ROSES 

Had  her  kiss  recalled  a  bliss 
Life  for  evermore  should  miss? 
Had  there  been  a  fatal  hour 
When  false  lips  had  hurt  the  flower 
Of  love,  and  now  its  sad  estate 
She  saw  in  that  dead  rose's  fate? 
Who  may  know?     A  little  while 
She  lingered  with  a  doubtful  smile; 
Took  then  a  younger  rose,  whose  slips 
The  garden  knew,  and  with  her  lips 

Its  color  matched.     What  gracious  words 
It  said  might  know  the  garden  birds, — 
Something,  perchance,  that  liked  her  well ; 
But  roses  kiss,  and  never  tell. 

What  confession,  what  dear  boon, 

Heard  that  ruddy  priest  of  June? 
Was  it  a  mad  gypsy-rose 
Fortunes  eager  to  disclose, 

Gravely  whispering  predictions 

Rich  with  love's  unending  fictions, 
Saying  nonsense  good  to  hear, 
Like  a  pleasant-mannered  seer? 

Gypsy  palms  are  crossed  with  gold, 

But  my  lady,  gaily  bold, 
In  the  antique  coin  of  kisses 
Paid  for  prophecy  of  blisses ; 

And,  to  make  assurance  sure, 

This  conspirator  demure 
Murmured,  in  a  pretty  way, 
What  her  prophet  ought  to  say. 

Low  she  laughed,  and  then  was  gone ; 

My  pleasant  little  play  was  done. 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    ROSES  175 

Alone  I  sit  and  muse.     Below, 
Black  gondolas  glide  to  and  fro, 

Like  shadows  that  have  stolen  away 

From  centuried  arch  and  palace  gray. 
Then,  as  if  out  of  memory  brought, 

The  sequel  of  my  garden  masque 
Comes  silently,  by  fancy  wrought, — 

A  gift  I  had  not  cared  to  ask. 

Lo !  where  the  terraced  marble  ends, 

Barred  by  the  sweetbrier's  scented  bound, 
The  lady  of  my  dream  descends, 

And  day  by  day  the  garden  ground 
Her  footsteps  know ;  with  lingering  gait, 
She  wanders  early,  wanders  late, 

Or,  sadly  patient,  on  the  lawn 
Each  day  renews  her  gentle  trust, 

When,  from  the  busy  highway  drawn, 
Float  high  its  curves  of  sunlit  dust. 

The  children  of  her  garden  greet 

With  counsel  innocent  and  sweet 

The  coming  of  her  constant  feet. 
She  whispers,  and  their  low  replies 
Bring  gladness  to  her  lips  and  eyes; 

She  will  no  other  company; 

For  her  the  flowers  have  come  to  be 

All  of  life's  dim  reality. 
Purple  pansies,  gold  embossed, 
That  in  love  had  once  been  crossed, 
Murmur,  We  have  loved  and  lost ; 

And  the  cool  blue  violets 

Sigh,  We  wait  for  life's  regrets. 
Thistles  gray,  beyond  the  fence, 


•          MY    LADY    OF   THE    ROSES 

Mutter  prickly  common-sense; 
While  the  lilies,  pale  and  bent, 
Say,  We  too  sinned,  are  penitent; 
Only  that  can  bring  content. 
Red  generations  of  the  rose 
Unheeded  passed  to  death's  repose ; 
The  peach  upon  the  crumbling  wall, 
With  springtide  bloom  and  autumn  fall, 
No  proverb  had  to  foster  fear, 
No  time-worn  wisdom  brought  her  near. 
The  willows  o'er  two  noisy  brooks, 
In  marriage  come  to  sober  mood, 
Were  but  green  slips,  that  eve  of  May ; 
Now,  underneath  their  shade  she  looks, 

And  smiling  says,  "  Time  must  be  rude, 
To  keep  him  thus  so  many  a  day." 
They  tell  her  he  is  dead !     "  Ah  !  nay," 
She  answers;  "  he  but  rode  away, 
And  he  will  come  again  in  May. 

And  I  can  wait,"  she  says,  and  stands 
With  roses  in  her  thin  white  hands. 
Childlike,  with  innocent  replies, 
She  meets  the  world.     Wide  open  lies 
Her  book  of  life;  Time  turns  the  leaves, 
Like  each  to  each,  because  she  grieves 
Nor  less  nor  more,  save  when  in  fear, 
On  one  dark  eve  of  all  the  year, 
Dismayed  lest  love's  divine  distress 
Be  dulled  by  time's  forgetfulness. 

Venice,  June  1891. 


HOW    THE   POET    FOR   AN    HOUR 
WAS    KING 


ONCE  in  a  garden  space,  Saadi  saith, 
I  came  upon  a  tower,  where  within 
There  lay  a  king  imprisoned  until  death 
Should  set  him  free ;  and  thinking  deep  of  sin, 
And  those  who  took  its  madness  to  and  fro 
Below  the  dead  hope  of  these  prison  bars, 
I  saw  the  thoughtless  stream  of  pleasure  flow 
Till  evening,  and  the  sad  reproachful  stars 
Loosed  a  great  sorrow  on  me  for  this  king 
To  whom  in  other  days  I  joyed  to  sing. 
Himself  had  trained  himself  to  noble  use 
Of  that  great  instrument,  a  man ;  abuse 
Of  power  he  knew  not;  never  one 
So  served  victorious  virtue.     Then  there  came 
Defeat  and  ruin.     Now  no  more  the  sun 
Shall  see  again  his  face  who  reckoned  fame 
As  but  an  accident  of  righteous  deeds. 
Thus  evening  found  me  thinking  how  exceeds 
Man's  strangest  dream,  what  Allah  wills  for  him, 
Till  through  the  shadows  of  the  twilight  dim 
I  heard  the  gray  muezzin  call  to  prayer. 
Upon  the  sands  I  knelt  alone,  and  there 
Entreated  Allah  till  the  middle  hour. 
177 


HOW    THE    POET    WAS    KING 

Among  the  palms  that  were  around  the  tower 

Came,  as  if  pitiful,  the  nightingale, 

And  sang  and  sang  as  if  'twere  sin  to  fail; 

Whilst  I  who  loved  this  great  soul  come  to  naught 

Stayed  wondering  if  any  solace  brought 

The  happy  song  that  knows  not  pain  of  thought. 

But  then  I  heard  above  me,  clear  and  strong, 

The  king's  voice  rising  gather  force  of  song, 

Till  from  the  prison  wall  its  tameless  power 

Triumphant  rang,  as  in  some  doubtful  hour 

Of  angry  battle  or  when  from  retreat 

It  called  again  the  shame  of  flying  feet. 

Now  like  a  war  drum  rolling  far  away 

Its  stormy  rhythms  died.     No  voice  may  say 

Its  after-sweetness,  for,  as  drops  a  bird 

That  high  in  air  hath  on  a  sudden  heard 

Its  little  ones  below,  and  surely  guessed 

The  lonely  sadness  of  the  yearning  nest, 

Fell  earthward  pitiful  the  singer's  verse, 

Cradled  the  many  griefs  of  man,  the  curse 

Of  pain,  of  sin,  and  in  its  soothing  rhyme 

Rocked  into  peace  these  petty  woes  of  time, 

Till  I,  who  would  have  given  a  caliph's  gold 

For  consolation,  was  myself  consoled. 

Musing,  I  said,  "  Lo  !  I  will  be  this  king, 

Because  a  poet  can  be  anything, 

And  may  inhabit  for  a  wilful  hour 

A  maiden  heart,  or  haunt  a  dewy  flower, 

Or  be  the  murdered,  or  the  murderer's  hate." 

I  called  to  mind  all  knowledge,  small  or  great, 

Men  had  of  him  who  sang,  when  his  estate 

Knew  power  and  its  danger.     How  he  ruled 

A  wayward  race  I  knew ;  how  sternly  schooled 


HOW    THE  'POET    WAS    KING  T79 

His  gentleness  to  give  large  justice  sway; 
How  helped  the  kindly  arts  of  peace,  and  gay, 
And  masterful  of  all  that  makes  life  sweet, 
The  jewel  love  set  in  this  crown  complete. 
These,  and  much  other  gathered  up  from  thought, 
I  took  —  and  lo,  how  strange  !     A  moment 

brought 

The  whole  to  oneness,  as  when  on  a  glass 
The  sun-rays  fall,  and  bent  together  pass, 
And  glowing,  flash  a  point  of  burning  light; 
So,  for  a  time  I  was  the  king  that  night. 

A  king  was  I, —  a  king  of  Allah's  birth, 
In  one  brief  hour  I  lived  long  years  of  earth. 
I  broke  the  robber  tribes  who  vexed  with  wrong 
My  peaceful  folk.     Yea,  as  the  simoon  strong 
That  hurls  the  sands  of  death,  in  will  and  deed 
A  king  I  rode.     Then  saw  my  people  bleed 
My  state  fall  from  me,  and  a  brutal  fate 
Wreck  law  and  justice;  with  a  tranquil  face 
Beheld  die  out  of  life  its  joy  and  grace, 
And  quick  death  busy  with  whate'er  I  loved  — 
All  these  I  saw,  but  with  a  heart  unmoved, 
And  marvelled  at  myself,  as  in  a  dream 
A  man  hath  wonder  when  his  visions  seem 
Fitting  and  true  to  sense.     And  so  erelong, 
Considering  what  fault  had  let  the  wrong 
O'ercome  the  right,  I  lost  myself  in  song. 

Am  I  the  potter?     Am  I  the  clay? 
Allah,  Thou  knowest !     Soft  and  gray 
Fall  the  curling  shreds  away. 
Lo,  the  noiseless  feet  of  years 


l8o  HOW    THE    POET   WAS    KING 

Swift  the  rhythmic  treadle  ply; 
Hath  the  potter  doubts  and  fears  ? 
Is  the  clay  kept  soft  with  tears? 
Still  the  busy  wheel  doth  fly. 
He  is  the  potter,  I  am  the  clay; 
Swiftly  drop  the  ribands  gray, 
Flower  and  vine  leaf  silently  grow, 
Strong  and  gracious  the  vase  doth  show, 
Firm  and  large, —  the  cup  of  a  king. 
Hither  and  thither  wandering 
The  potter's  fingers  deftly  smooth 
Tangled  tracery,  and  groove 
Emblems,  texts,  the  rose  of  love. 
Suddenly  his  fingers  slip, 
Cracks  the  ever-thinning  lip. 
Was  it  the  potter?    Was  it  the  clay? 
Allah!  Allah!  who  can  say? 
And  the  king  I  was  that  night 
Smiled,  to  see  the  potter's  plight. 


I  am  the  potter,  I  am  the  clay, 
Spinning  fall  the  earth-threads  gray, 
Deftly  molded,  strong  and  tall 
Grows  the  vase,  and  over  all 
Bud  and  roses,  vine  and  grape, 
Twine  around  its  comely  shape. 
Was  it  potter?    Was  it  clay? 
Did  the  potter's  hand  betray 
Indecision?     Who  can  say? 
At  his  feet  the  fragments  roll; 
Lo,  beside  the  wheel  he  stands 
Wondering,  with  idle  hands. 


HOW    THE    POET    WAS    KING  ll 

Let  him  gather  up  his  soul 

And  make  the  clay  a  poor  man's  bowl ! 

Thus  said  the  quiet  king  I  was  that  night, 
And  o'er  me  grew  the  life  of  morning  light, 
While  from  the  constant  minaret  above, 
As  drops  a  feather  from  the  angel  love, 
Fell  the  first  call  to  prayer,  and  overhead 
A  strong  voice  from  the  prison  tower  said, 
"  Allah  il  Allah !  God  is  ever  great. 
Time  is  his  prophet  for  the  souls  who  wait." 


1890. 


THE  VIOLIN 
TIME,    1750 

THE   TYROL 

% 

SCENE,  A  hilltop  with  a  wayside  cross. 

JOHAN. 

Sing  sweet,  sing  sweet,  my  violin,  sing; 
Sing  all  thy  best, —  sing  sweet,  sing  sweet ; 
Gay  welcomes  fling  more  swift  to  bring 
The  cadence  of  her  loitering  feet. 
Ring  strong  along  thy  bounding  wires 
A  song  shall  throng  with  youth's  desires. 
Let  the  yearning  joy-notes  linger 
'Neath  the  coy,  caressing  finger, 
Till  the  swift  bow,  flitting  over, 
Dainty  as  a  doubtful  lover, 
Slyly,  shyly,  kisses  dreaming, 
Falters  o'er  the  trembling  strings, 
And  the  love-tones,  slower  streaming, 
Fade  to  fitful  murmurings. 

Another  year  !     Ah,  fate  is  hard  ! 
Another  year!     My  hands  are  scarred 
With  rugged  toil.     The  tender  skill 
With  which  they  wrought  my  music's  will 
Fails  as  the  days  go  by ;  and  yet 
182 


THE   VIOLIN  183 

No  term  to  misery  is  set. 

Thou  gentle  conjurer  of  sound, 

The  one  fast  friend  my  life  has  found, 

Vain  all  thy  art;  though  I  can  wing 

The  love-larks  from  each  leaping  string, 

And  heavenward  send  them  carolling; 

Bend  at  my  will  the  soul  in  prayer, 

Bid  man  or  maid  my  sorrow  share; 

Can  stir  the  ferns  upon  the  rock, 

And  anguish  all  the  air  with  pain ; 

Or,  velvet-voiced,  delight  to  mock 

The  fairy  footfalls  of  the  rain. 

It  helps  me  not,  though  I  have  force 

To  thrill  the  forest  with  remorse, 

Or  torture  sound  till  every  air 

Dark  murder  hisses,  and  despair; 

And,  'mid  the  harmonies  that  flow, 

Strange  discords  riot  'neath  the  bow. 

Like  'wildered  fiends  astray  in  heaven, — 

Alas,  alas,  why  was  it  given, 

This  useless  power?     My  wasted  art 

Serves  but  to  wring  a  peasant's  heart. 

ELSA. 

My  Johan,  have  you  waited  long? 

I  heard  your  viol's  happy  song; 

I  heard  it  call,  "  Come  quick,  come  fast !  " 

As  o'er  the  stepping-stones  I  passed. 

I  heard  it  calling,  "  Sweet,  come  fleet !  " 

As  up  I  came  among  the  wheat. 

The  birds  o'erhead  called,  "  Soon, —  come  soon  !  " 

I  think  they  know  its  pretty  tune. 

What,  sad  again,  and  ever  sad? 


184  THE   VIOLIN 

Play,  Johan,  play !     'T  is  eventide ; 
The  bells  ring  out  the  story  glad 
How  came  her  joy  to  Mary's  side. 


JOHAN. 

I  cannot.     Better  had  I  stayed 

In  yonder  convent's  tranquil  shade, 

At  hopeless  peace.     They  meant  it  well 

Who  bade  me  be  a  priest.     The  cell, 

The  fast,  dead  prayers,  a  palsied  life, 

I  fought  or  bent  to,  till  the  strife 

O'ermastered  patience.     None  too  late 

I  fled  beyond  their  cursed  gate ; 

And  free  was  I  as  birds  are  free 

To  fly,  and  yet  at  liberty, 

Like  them,  to  quench  no  single  note 

That  trembles  in  the  eager  throat. 

What  slavery  sweet  to  feel  within 

The  song  which  not  to  sing  is  sin ! 

If  He  at  whose  divine  decree 

These  hands  interpret  Him  can  be 

So  careless  of  the  gift  He  gave, 

What  has  He  left  me  but  the  grave? 

I  plough,  I  dig;  far  through  the  years 

I  see  myself  the  slave  of  tears, — 

I,  that  have  dreamed  of  love  and  fame, 

A  village  boor,  without  a  name. 

Last  week  the  young  duke  opened  wide, 

To  please  the  poor,  his  garden's  pride. 

There,  wandering,  I  saw  withal 

The  nectarines  rotting  on  the  wall, 

The  tumbling  grapes  caught  up  with  thread, 

The  dead-ripe  figs  hung  overhead, 


THE   VIOLIN 

The  fattening  peaches  swung  in  nets. 

What  woman's  starving  baby  gets 

One  half  the  care  that  saves  these  pets? 

Sharp,  sharp  the  lesson.     Break,  sad  heart. 

Or  learn  to  know  the  poor  man's  art, — 

The  art  to  bear  with  patience  meek 

The  blow  upon  the  other  cheek. 

How  shall  I  bear  it?     I  could  steal, 

Cheat,  for  this  chance.     You  only  feel, 

And  you  alone,  how  hard  the  toil 

That  bends  me  o'er  the  silent  soil, 

And  you  alone  what  wild  desires 

Await  a  larger  life;  what  fires 

Of  wordless  anguish  burn  unguessed, 

To  think, —  be  sure, —  that  unexpressed, — 

A  serf,  a  boor, —  my  soul  has  here 

A  gift  the  waiting  world  holds  dear. 

Old  violin,  comrade  of  the  hours 

That  labor  spares,  what  music-flowers, 

What  whispers  wild,  what  visions  bright, 

Thy  friendship  brings  the  tired  night ! 

And  yet,  like  one  who,  sick  with  sin, 

Would  murder  love  he  cannot  win, 

Twice  on  the  bridge,  at  night,  I  stood, 

To  cast  thee  in  the  wrecking  flood. 

But  when  a  last  farewell  I  sung 

Too  stern  a  pang  my  bosom  wrung; 

I  could  not  drown  the  dreams  that  crave 

Expression's  life.     Best  were  the  grave. 

ELSA. 

Yet  that  were  sin !     Could  I  but  give 
My  life  to  help  your  art  to  live ! 


186  THE    VIOLIN 

The  Alp-horn  calls;  I  cannot  stay. 
One  kiss.     Ah,  Johan,  wait  and  pray. 

[She  sees  a  purse  in  the  road. 
A  purse ! 

JOHAN.  I  pray  it  be  not  thin. 

ELSA. 

Nay,  touch  it  not.     It  lies  within 

The  shadow  of  the  cross.     "T  is  sin. 

Who  taketh  but  a  flower  or  stone 

Where  that  holy  shade  is  thrown 

Is  cursed  to  death.     His  dearest  prayer, 

Fluttering  like  a  prisoned  bird, 

Never  wins  the  happy  air, 

Beats  against  the  painted  saints, 

At  the  altar  hopeless  faints, 

Never,  never  to  be  heard. 

JOHAN. 

The  ban  is  off, —  the  sun  is  on. 

St.  George !  't  is  full ;  my  luck  has  won. 

Good  thirty  ducats,  gold  beside  ! 

Ho  for  my  love,  my  art,  my  bride ! 

ELSA. 

What,  take  at  will  another's  gold, 
For  love,  for  greed?     Stay,  Johan, —  hold! 
The  duke  has  guests !     You  cannot  soil 
Your  soul  with  this. 

JOHAN.  And  did  they  toil 

To  win  this  money?     Out  of  earth 


THE   VIOLIN 

Some  swarthy  bondsman  wrought  its  birth. 
His  sweat,  his  pain,  to  be  at  last 
A  wanton's  wage,  a  gambler's  cast ! 
Mine  is  it  now  to  better  end. 

ELSA. 

You  cannot  keep  it.     Johan,  friend, 
A  curse  is  on  it.     Curses  stay. 
For  gain  did  one  Lord  Christ  betray : 
When  Satan  gives  another's  gold, 
So  much  of  the  Christ  is  sold. 
Blessings  come  and  heavenward  go, 
Wing-clipped  curses  bide  below. 
Thirty  ducats,  broad  and  bright, — 
Hide  them,  Johan,  out  of  sight. 
Silver  white,  it  f  etcheth  blight ! 
Gold,  gold,  is  wicked,  bold ! 
Hear  now  the  story  mother  told: 
Since  ever  I  was  a  little  maid 
Ghost-gray  silver  makes  me  afraid. 

Zillah's  son,  great  Tubal  Cain, 
Deep  he  digged  in  the  earth, 
Where  strong  iron  hath  its  birth, 
Till  the  hurt  earth  sobbed  with  pain. 
Little  recked  he,  Tubal  Cain. 
The  sword  and  the  ploughshare 
Out  of  iron  he  forged  with  care ; 
Brass  and  copper  red  he  found 
In  their  coffins  underground. 
Then  Lord  Satan  hired  he 
To  dig  to  all  eternity. 
Tore  he  from  the  broken  mould 


1 88  THE   VIOLIN 

Moon-white  silver,  sun-red  gold. 
On  the  blessed  Sabbath  morn, 
Tubal  Cain,  with  laugh  and  scorn, 
Tortured  from  the  silver  white 
Thirty  pieces,  broad  and  bright. 
Quick  were  they  and  sore  to  keep ; 
None  who  had  them  gathered  sleep. 
Little  Joseph's  brethren  said 
They  would  dye  his  garments  red; 
Thirty  coins  of  Tubal  Cain 
Gat  they  for  their  brother's  pain. 
At  the  holy  city's  gate 
Joseph  and  Mary  long  did  wait; 
Neither  corn  nor  gold  had  they 
The  cruel  Roman  tax  to  pay. 
Little  babe  Jesu  spake  aloud, — 
Marvelled  greatly  all  the  crowd, — 
Spake  the  child  in  Mary's  ear, 
"  Dig  in  the  sand,  and  have  no  fear." 
Deep  they  delved,  and  brought  to  light 
Thirty  pieces,  broad  and  bright. 
Foul-faced  Judas  sold  his  Lord 
For  to  have  this  devil-hoard; 
Black-faced  Judas  had  for  gain 
The  thirty  coins  of  Tubal  Cain. 
On  the  floor  the  coins  he  spent, 
Brake  his  heart,  and  out  he  went. 
All  the  way  adown  the  hill 
Rolled  the  ducats  with  him  still ; 
Underneath  his  gallows  tree 
Danced  the  ducats  for  to  see. 
Now  they  pay  for  murder  done, 
Now  by  them  the  thief  is  won. 


THE   VIOLIN  189 

Mary  Mother,  and  every  saint 

Keep  me  from  the  silver  taint ! 

My  heart  from  wrong,  my  body  from  pain, 

My  soul  from  sin  like  Tubal  Cain ! 

JOHAN. 

The  purse  is  mine !  No  old  monk's  tale 
Shall  stay  my  hand.     If  this  should  fail  — 

All  men  own  death.  How  shall  it  be? 

ELSA. 

Give  me  the  purse!     The  purse  or  me? 
Am  I  so  little  worth? 

JOHAN.  Take  care; 

I  hear  a  horse. 


Enter  HORSEMAN. 

HORSEMAN.  Ho,  fellow,  there  ! 

Hast  seen  a  purse?     Just  here  it  lay. 

ELSA. 

My   Johan    found   it. 

HORSEMAN   (takes  it}.  Thanks.     Good-day. 

[Rides  away  as  a  gentleman  comes  behind  them,  hidden 
by  the  hedge. 

JOHAN. 

Now  is  life  over. 


19°  THE   VIOLIN 

ELSA.  Never  less. 

Your  soul  is  saved.     Now,  Johan,  guess 
A  secret.     No?     Well,  at  the  fair 
Last  week  I  sold,  I  pledged,  my  hair. 
To-morrow  I  shall  fetch  the  gold 
To  win  your  way.     Ah,  love  is  bold. 
My  father?     Think  you  I  shall  care? 
A  little  hurt;  less  ill  to  bear 
Than  that  worse  hurt  you  bade  me  share. 

JOHAN. 

Forgive,  forget !     Ah,  not  again 
Your  trust  shall  fail. 

ELSA.  Just  one  more  kiss 

And  ere  your  sinless  face  I  miss, 
Take  up  the  viol.     Say  not  nay. 
The  twilight  song.     Play,  Johan,  play 
The  song  that  in  the  stillness  brings 
My  troubled  soul  from  earthly  things, 
When  the  blown  horns  the  cattle  call 
Back  to  the  shelter  of  the  stall. 

JOHAN.  Come  home,  come  home. 

Not  through  the  sallow  wheat, 
Come  home,  come  home, 
Though  to  grass-tangled  feet 
The  dewy  ways  be  sweet. 
Come  home,  come  home. 
Meek  eyes  and  skins  of  silk, 
Come  home,  come  home. 
Fetch  .the  clover-scented  milk, 
Come  home,  come  home. 


THE   VIOLIN 

With  their  pails  the  maidens  wait, 
Ever  singing  at  the  gate, 
Come  home,  come  home. 
Come  ye  home  to  Mary's  wings, 
Joy  to  earth  the  angel  rings, 
Come  home,  come  home. 
Bring  your  load  of  care  and  sin, 
Lo,  she  waits  to  let  you  in, 
Come  home,  come  home. 


Stay,  stay  awhile.     Though  dear  my  art, 
More  dear  your  love.     The  tears  that  start 
I  know  are  joy.     Lo,  Seraph  wings 
Flutter  o'er  the  praying  strings. 
Hark  and  hear  your  gladdened  soul 
All  the  raptured  viol  thrill; 
Viewless  hands  my  touch  control, 
Other  force  than  earthly  will. 
Purer  than  the  chant  of  saints 
Rings  the  anthem  of  your  heart; 
Though  upon  your  lip  it  faints, 
Though  the  tears  your  eyelids  part, 
Angel  voices,  pure  and  strong, 
Catch  the  sweetness  of  the  song. 
Hark!  the  silver  crash  of  cymbals; 
Hear  the  joyous  clash  of  timbrels, 
Pouring  through  the  shadows  dim  ; 
All  the  air  is  music-riven, 
And  the  organ's  stately  hymn 
Thunders  to  the  vault  of  heaven. 
Murmurs,  whispers,  sad,  mysterious, 
Language  of  another  sphere, 


I92  THE    VIOLIN 

Faint  and  solemn,  tender,  serious, 
Wander  to  my  listening  ear. 


Enter  GENTLEMAN. 
GENTLEMAN. 

A  poet-lover!     Did  you  find  my  purse? 

JOHAN. 

Ay;  and  had  kept  it,  too, —  or  worse, — 
Except  for  her. 

GENTLEMAN.  Would  Eve  had  stayed 

As  honest  as  your  blushing  maid ! 
I  always  thought  the  story  queer, 
Would  like  that  poor  snake's  tale  to  hear. 
Sometimes  I  fancy  Madam  Eve 
Tempted  the  Tempter  to  deceive. 
I  heard  you  tell  a  pretty  tale 
About  some  yellow  hair  for  sale. 
Wilt  sell  it  now?     Say,  gold  for  gold! 
Let 's  see  the  goods.  [Pulls  out  the  comb. 

'T  is  worth,  when  sold, 
A  hundred  ducats. 

JOHAN.  No,  my  lord, 

T  is  not  for  sale.     No  miser's  hoard 
Could  buy  it. 

GENTLEMAN.  Say  two  hundred,  then; 

A  kiss  to  boot.     I  know  of  men 
Would  ask  for  six. 

ELSA.  'T  is  yours, — 't  was  mine  ! 


THE   VIOLIN  193 

GENTLEMAN. 

The  gold  is  thine.     Too  proudly  shine 
Those  locks  above  a  heart  of  gold 
For  me  to  part  them.     When  you  're  old, 
And  you  have  babes  and  he  has  fame, 
Teach  in  their  prayers  the  wild  duke's  name. 
And  you  who  thought  a  purse  to  keep, 
Within  that  battered  violin  sleep  — 
Ah,  but  I  heard  —  all  wealth  and  power 
Man  craves  on  earth.     In  some  full  hour, 
When  heaven  is  nearest,  make  for  me 
One  golden  fugue,  to  live  and  be 
Remembered  when  the  morrow's  light 
Is  gone  for  us.     Good-night,  Good-night. 

1887. 


FRANCOIS  VILLON 

THE    COUNT   DE   LILLE,    AND 
THE   SEIGNEUR    DE   LUCE,    A    FREE-LANCE. 

TIME,  circa  1463 

SCENE,  The  Garden  of  an  Inn. 

DE  LUCE. 

Our  good  Duke   Charles,  you  tell  me,   fain  would 

know 

Where  bides  this  other  rhymer.     Be  it  so. 
I  might  have  said,  I  know  not:  for  to  lie 
Is  easy,  natural,  and  hath  brevity 
To  win  its  hearing  favor,  whilst  the  truth 
Spins  out  forever  like  a  woman's  youth, 
And  lacks  the  world  for  ally.     But  mere  pride 
Would  make  me  honest.     Let  the  duke  decide 
'Twixt  boor  and  noble.     Ah.i  't  was  gay,  I  think, 
When  we  were  lads  together.     What!  not  drink? 
Then,  by  St.  Bacchus,  here  's  to  you,  my  lord ! 
Men  say  that  luck,  a  liberal  jade,  has  poured 
Her  favors  on  you:  lordships  half  a  score, 
Castles  and  lands,  that  vineyard  on  the  Loire; 
Something  too  much  for  one  who  lightly  leaves 
Such  wine  as  this.     Alas !  who  has,  receives. 
194 


FRANCOIS   VILLON  ^95 

DE  LILLE. 

Come  when  you  will  and  share  it.     I  have  served 
God  and  the  King.    What  fortune  I  've  deserved 
The  good  saints  know;  through  many  a  year  I've 

played 

The  games  of  war  and  peace.     My  father's  blade 
Has  no  stain  on  it.     That,  it  seemeth  me, 
Were  pleasant  to  the  conscience,  when,  set  free 
From  war  and  council  and  grown  old  and  gray, 
Fades  in  monastic  peace  one's  life  away. 
These  war-filled  years  gone  by  since  last  we  met 
Have  had  their  griefs.     What  of  yourself?     Forget 
My  fates  and  me.     I  think  the  latter  wars 
Have  missed  your  helping.     As  for  me,  my  scars 
Count  half  these  years. 

DE  LUCE.  Well,  as  chance  willed,  I  fought 

In  Spain,  or  Italy,  or  France,  and  brought 
Some  pretty  plunder  back ;  have  killed  my  share, 
Dutch,  Don,  or  Switzer,  any  —  everywhere 
That  bones  were  to  be  broken  and  the  fare 
And  game  were  good;  have  taken  soldier  pay 
On  this  side  and  on  that.     In  wine  or  play 
Spent  gaily;  found  life  but  a  merry  friend 
That  lent,  and  then  forgot  the  debt.     To  end, 
Came  home.     And  now  my  tale.     On  Easter-day 
It  lost  its  hero. 

Silence,  once  't  is  broke, 

Can  no  man  mend.     'T  was  thus  this  fellow  spoke 
Of  whom  I  talk.     I  never  owned  the  thing 
Folks  like  to  label  conscience,  which  the  king 
Packs  wisely  on  his  chancellor.     My  device, 
"  Suivez  le  Roi,"  suits  well  with  life.     Not  nice 


I96  FRANCOIS   VILLON 

Need  one  to  be  who  Louis,  or  the  rest, 

Loyally  follows, —  taking  what  is  best 

Each  good  day  offers;  yet,  sometimes,  De  Lille, 

Woman  or  wine,  or  one's  too  ready  steel, 

Lures  one  a  trifle  past  the  line  of  sport, 

And  then, —  you  see  my  point, —  a  friend  at  court 

Perchance  is  needed.     Gossip,  hereabout, 

Which  spreads  like  oil  on  water,  leaves  no  doubt 

That  I  should  speak.     That  wastrel  had  a  way, 

A  trick  of  speech,  as  when  he  said,  one  day, 

"  The  pot  of  Silence  cracked,  't  were  best  to  break." 

Strange  how  his  words  stay  with  me !     Half  awake 

Last  night,  I  saw  him,  laughing  too,  and  gay, 

A  grinning  ghost,  De  Lille.     What  priest  could  lay 

A  rhyming,  jesting  fiend?     I  have  killed  men, 

Ay,  and  some  pretty  fellows  too,  but  then 

None  troubled  sleep.     This  dead  man,  like  an  owl, 

Roosts,  wide-eyed,  on  my  breast, —  a  feeble  fowl  — 

Mere  barnyard  fowl  at  morn, —  a  carrion  ghost. 

The  devil  has  bad  locks  to  keep  his  host 

Of  poets,  thieves,  and  tipplers. 

DE  LILLE.  Think  you  so? 

No  man  can  tell,  De  Luce,  when  some  chance  blow 
Shall  give  him  memories  none  may  care  to  know. 
Once,  when  we  charged  nigh  Burgos,  sorely  pressed, 
I  drove  my  rapier  through  a  youngster's  breast 
In  wild  fierce  mellay  when  none  think, —  and  yet 
I  see  him, —  see  him  reeling;  never  can  forget 
His  large  eyes'  sudden  change,  that  one  long  cry ! 
'T  was  but  a  moment,  and  the  charge  went  by. 
Some  unknown  woman  curses  me  in  sleep, 
Mother  or  mistress;  why  does  memory  keep 


FRANgOIS   VILLON  197 

These  nettles,  let  the  roses  fall  ?     Well !  well ! 
What  more,  De  Luce?     The  tale  you  have  to  tell 
Is  told  a  friend ! 

DE  LUCE.  Three  bitter  years  ago 

A  woman,  every  year  more  fair,  one  Isabeau, 

A  Demoiselle  De  Meilleraye,  began 

To  twist  this  coil  which  later  cost  a  man 

A  pleasant  reckless  life,  and  you  my  tale. 

Maids  I  have  loved  a  many,  widows  frail 

Loved  par  amour,  but  this  one  gaily  spun 

A  pretty  net  about  me.     It  was  done 

Before  I  fully  knew,  and  once  begun, 

No  fly  more  surely  netted.     Ever  still 

The  web  is  on  me.     At  her  merry  will 

What  pranks  she  played !  —  and  I,  a  fettered  slave, 

Was  black  or  white,  was  all  things,  blithe  or  grave, 

As  met  her  humor.     Many  a  suitor  came 

Because  her  lands  were  broad,  and,  too,  the  game 

Worth  any  candle.     She  but  laughed.     Some  flared, 

Or  sputtered,  and  went  out.     My  lady  shared 

Their  woe  but  little.     As  for  me,  I  fought 

A  good  half  dozen  lordlings,  also  caught 

A  hurt  or  two.     But  then,  ah !  that  was  worse, 

A  fellow  came  who  wooed  my  dame  in  verse, 

And  did  it  neatly, —  made  her  triolets 

Rhyming  her  great  blue  eyes  to  violets; 

Wrote  chansons,  villanelles,  and  rondelettes, 

Sonnets  and  other  stuff,  and  chansonnettes, 

And  jesting,  rhymed  the  color  of  my  nose 

With  something, —  possibly  an  o'erblown  rose. 

No  need  to  say  we  fought,  but  luck  went  hard : 

I  thrust  in  tierce;  he  parried,  broke  my  guard, 


198  FRANgOIS   VILLON 

And  then,  I  slipped, —  St.  Denis ;  but  I  lay 

A  good  six  weeks  to  ponder  on  the  way 

The  rascal  did  the  thing.     And  he  the  while 

Had  to  himself  my  lady's  gracious  smile ; 

Whereon  we  played  the  game  again,  and  time 

Was  that  to  which  my  rhymer  ceased  to  rhyme. 

A  pretty  trick  there  is,  De  Lille,  you  see 

I  learned  in  Padua ;  this  way,  on  one  knee 

To  drop  a  sudden;  then  a  thrust  in  quarte 

Settles  the  business.     You  shall  learn  the  art. 

'T  is  very  simple.     Ah  !  before  he  died 

He  fumbled  at  his  neck,  and  vainly  tried 

To  snatch  at  something,  till  at  last  I  took 

A  locket  from  him,  for  his  own  hand  shook, 

As  well  might  be.     He  had  but  only  breath 

To  mutter  feebly  "  Isabeau  ",  then  death 

Had  him,  and  I  the  locket  —  have  it  still, 

And  some  day  she  shall  have  it  —  in  my  will, 

For  scourge  of  memory.     This  same  Isabeau 

Wept  as  a  woman  does,  whilst  to  and  fro 

I  wandered,  waiting  till  the  mood  should  go, 

Then  came  again  and  found  my  lady  fair 

Reading  my  dead  man's  chansons.     Little  care 

Had  she  for  others.     I,  a  love-fool,  spent 

The  summer  days  like  any  boy,  intent 

To  fit  my  will  to  hers.     I  laugh  again 

To  think  I  vexed  my  battle-wildered  brain 

In  search  of  rhymes. —  You  smile,  my  lord?     'T  is 

so, 

To  find  me  gallant  rhymes  to  Isabeau. 
Pardie,  De  Lille,  she  rhymed  it  thrice  to  —  No ! 
Swore  none  could  love  who  lacked  the  joyous  art 
To  love  in  song. 


FRANCOIS   VILLON  *99 

Now,  really,  when  the  heart 
Gives  out,  and  knows  no  more,  one  asks  the  head 
To  help  that  idiot  ass.     Some  one  has  said, — 
Ah  !  that  man  said  it, —  said,  "  'T  is  heads  that  win 
In  love's  chuck-penny  game."     And  I  had  been 
The  heart's  fool  quite  too  long. — 

At  last,  one  day, 

Hunting  by  St.  Rileaux,  I  lost  my  way, 
And  wandering,  lit  upon  a  man  who  lay 
Drowsing,  or  drunk,  or  dreaming  mid  the  fern. 
Quite  motionless  he  stayed,  as  in  I  turn, 
And  say,  "  Get  up  there,  villein !  Ho !  in  there,— 
Get  up,  and  pilot  me  the  way  to  Claire !  " 
On  this  rose  lazily  a  lean,  long  man; 
Yawned,  stretched  himself, —  with  eyes  as  brown  as 

tan, 

And  somewhat  insolent,  regarded  me;  a  nose 
Fine  as  my  lady's;  red,  too,  I  suppose, 
With  sun,  or  just  so  much  of  sun  as  glows 
Shut  up  in  wine:  and  thus  far  not  a  word. 
Till  I,  not  over  gay,  or  somewhat  stirred 
By  this  brute's  careless  fashions,  wrathful  said, 
"  Art  dumb,  thou  dog?  "     But  he  untroubled  laid 
His  elbow  'gainst  a  tree-trunk,  set  his  hand 
To  prop  his  head,  and  then, — 

"  I  understand. 

You  lost  the  way  to  Claire,  whilst  I  have  lost 
The  gladdest  thought  that  haply  ever  crossed 
A  poet's  brain.     Think  what  it  is,  fair  sir, 
To  feel  within  your  soul  a  gentle  stir, 
To  see  a  vision  forming  as  from  mist, 
And  just  then  as  your  lips  have  almost  kissed 
This  thing  of  heaven,  to  have  a  man  insist 


200  FRANgOIS   VILLON 

You  show  the  way  to  Claire.     A  man  may  die 
And  still  the  world  go  on,  but  songs  that  fly 
From  laughing  lip  to  lip,  and  make  folk  glad, 
Have  more  than  mortal  life.     T  is  passing  sad. 
You  Ve  killed  a  thing  had  outlived  you  and  me, 
Bishops  and  kings,  and  danced,  a  voice  of  glee, 
On  lovers'  tongues."     Loudly  I  laughed  and  long. 
"  Mad !  mad  !  "  I  cried ;  "  the  whole  world  's  mad  in 

song. 

Out-memory  kings?     What  noble  trade  have  you 
That  rate  a  king  so  lo?     Speak  out,  or  rue 
The  hour  we  met.     Your  name,  your  name,  man,  too, 
Unless  you  like  sore  bones."     At  this  he  stayed, 
No  more  disturbed  than  I,  and  undismayed 
Said,  "  Franqois  Villon  de  Montcorbier 
Men  call  me;  but  I  really  cannot  say 
I  have  not  other  names  to  suit  at  need, 
As  certain  great  folks  have ;  and  sir,  indeed 
As  to  my  trade,  I  am  a  spinner,  and  I  spin, 
As  please  my  moods,  gay  songs  of  love  or  sin, 
Sonnets  or  psalms  —  could  make  a  verse  on  you. 
Hast  ever  heard  my  '  Ballade  des  Pendus  '  ? 
I  gave  the  verse  a  certain  swing,  you  see, 
That  humors  well  the  subject;  you'll  agree, 
To  read  it  really  shakes  one;  many  a  thief 
That  verse  has  set  a-praying.     To  be  brief  — 
Ah,  you'll  not  hear  it? — then,  sir,  by  my  sword, — 
But  that 's  in  pawn, —  or  better,  by  my  word, — 
I  can't  pawn  that, —  ye  saints!  if  I  but  could! 
Now  just  to  pay  your  patience, —  leave  the  wood 
At  yonder  turning;  then  the  road  to  Claire 
Lies  to  the  left ;  but  you  must  be  aware 
The  day  is  somewhat  warm,  and  pray  you  try 


FRANgOIS   VILLON  2O1 

To  think  how  very,  how  unnatural  dry 

I  am  inside  of  me;  for  outwardly, 

Thanks  to  the  dews,  I  'm  damp ;  but  could  I  put 

My  outside  inside, —  Ah  !  your  little  '  but ' 

Is  really  quite  a  philosophic  thing 

For  lords  who  lose  their  way,  and  men  who  sing. 

The  simple  fact  is,  I  am  deadly  dry  — 

And  that  mere  text  once  out,  the  sole  reply, 

The  sermon,  lies  within  your  purse."     I  said, 

"  Had  you  not  put  a  notion  in  my  head, 

I  long  ago  had  broken  yours.     Instead, 

Sell  me  its  use  awhile."     "  If  talk  be  dull," 

Cried  he,  "  'twixt  one  who  fasts  and  one  who  's  full, 

St.  George !  't  is  duller  than  the  dullest  worst 

When  one  of  them  is  just  corpse-dry  with  thirst. 

Once,  by  great  Noah !  a  certain  bishop-beast 

Kept  me  for  three  long  summer  months  at  least 

On  bread  and  water, —  water  !     Were  wine  rain, 

I  never,  never  could  catch  up  again." 

Well,  to  be  brief,  De  Lille,  just  there  and  then 

We  drove  an  honest  bargain.     He,  his  pen 

Sold  for  so  long  as  need  was, —  I,  to  get 

Three  times  a  week  some  joyful  rondelette, 

Sirventes  satiric,  competent  to  fit 

The  case  of  any  wooing,  versing  wit, 

Dizains,  rondeaux,  and  haply  pastourelles, 

With  any  other  rhyming  devil-spells 

A  well-soaked  brain  might  hatch,  whilst  I  agreed 

To  house,  clothe,  wine  the  man,  and  feed. 

That  day  we  settled  it  at  Claire.     A  tun 

Of  Burgundy  it  took  before  't  was  done. 

And  then,  to  ease  him  at  his  task,  you  know, 

Smiling  he  queried  of  this  Isabeau: 


FRANQOIS   VILLON 

Her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  hair;  because,  forsooth, 
"  The  trap  of  lies  were  baited  best  with  truth." 
Quoth  I,  half  vexed,  "  Brown-red,  her  hair."  "  I 

know," 

My  poet  says ;  "  gold  —  darkened,  like  the  glow 
The  sunset  casts,  to  crown  a  brow  of  snow." 
Then  I,  a  love-sick  fool ! — "  She  has  a  way  — 
Of" — "Yes,  I  understand;  as  lilies  sway 
When  south  winds  flatter,  and  the  month  is  May, 
And  love  words  has  the  maiden  rose  to  say." 
Here  pausing,  suddenly  he  let  his  head 
Rest  on  his  hands,  and,  half  in  whisper,  said, 
"  Alack  !     Full  many  a  year  the  daisies  grow 
Where  rests  at  peace  another  Isabeau." 
"  The  devil  take  thy  memories !     Guard  thy 

tongue !  " 
Said  I.    What  chanced  was  droll,  for  quick  tears, 

wrung 

From  some  low  love-past,  tumbled  in  his  wine : 
Cried  he,  "  The  saints  weep  through  us.     Can  these 

tears  be  mine? 
The  dead  are  kings  and  rule  us  " —  drank  the  liquor 

up, 

Laughed  outright  like  a  girl,  and  turned  the  cup, 
With  "  Never  yet  before,  since  life  was  young, 
Did  I  put  water  in  my  wine,"  then  flung 
The  glass  behind  him,  shouted,  "  Quick,  a  bottle !  — 
Another;  grief  is  but  a  thief  to  throttle. 
Ho !  let  the  ancient  hangman  Time  appear 
And  tuck  it  a  neat  tie  beneath  the  ear. 

Many  a  trade  has  master  Time. 

He  sits  in  corners,  and  spinneth  rhyme. 

He  is  a  partner  of  master  Death, 


FRANCOIS   VILLON  203 

Puffs  man's  candle  out  with  a  breath, 

Leaves  the  wick  to  sputter  and  tell 

In  a  sort  of  odorous  epitaph 

How  foul  the  thought  of  a  man  may  smell 

For  the  world  that  lives,  and  has  its  laugh. 

Ha !  but  Time  has  many  trades ! 

Something  in  me  now  persuades 

Master  Time,  grown  debonair, 

Hath  turned  for  me  a  potter  rare, 

And  made  him  a  vase  beyond  compare : 

Here  below,  a  rounded  waist, 

Fit  with  roses  to  be  laced; 

Rising,  ripely  curved  above 

Into  flowing  lines  of  love. 

Thinking,  too,  how  sweet  't  would  grow, 

Time  called  the  proud  vase  Isabeau." 
"  By  every  saint  of  rhyme,"  laughed  I,  "  good  fellow, 
If  this  a  man  can  do  when  rather  mellow  " — 
"What  shall  he  do  ripe-drunk?"  he  cried;  "erelong 
The  vine  shall  live  again  a  flower  of  song." 
How  much  he  drank  that  six  months  who  may 

know? 

He  kept  his  word.     There  came  a  noble  flow, — 
Rondels  and  sonnets,  songs,  gay  fabliaux, 
Tencils,  and  virelais,  and  chants  royaux, 
That  turned  at  last  the  head  of  Isabeau. 
For,  by  and  by,  he  spun  a  languid  lay 
Set  her  a  weeping  for  an  April  day. 
And  then  a  reverdie,  I  scarcely  knew 
Just  what  it  meant ;  by  times  the  damsel  grew 
Pensive  and  tender,  till  at  last  she  said, — 
You  see  the  bait  was  very  nicely  spread, — 
"  How  chances  it,  fair  sir,  this  gift  of  song 


204  FRAN  go  IS    VILLON 

Lay  thus  unused?     You  did  yourself  a  wrong: 
But  now  I  love  you, —  love  as  one  well  may 
A  heart  that  hides  its  treasures,  yet  can  say 
At  last  their  sweetness  out.     This  simple  lay ! — 
How  could  you  know  my  thoughts  ?  " 

On  this  in  haste 

I  cast  an  arm  around  her  little  waist, 
And  kissed  her  lips,  and  murmured  tenderly 
Some  pretty  lines  my  poet  made  for  me 
And  this  occasion's  chance. 

So  there,  the  dame 
Well  wooed  and  married,  ends  this  pleasant  game. 

DE  LILLE. 

I  knew  your  poet  once, —  of  knaves  the  chief, 
A  gallows-mocking  brawler,  guzzler,  thief, — 
This  orphan  of  the  devil  won  with  song 
Our  good  Duke  Charles,  who  thinks  of  no  man 

wrong, 

And  least  of  all  a  poet.     Once  or  twice 
Duke   Charles   has   saved   his   neck.     One    can't   be 

nice 

With  poet  friends,  nor  leave  them  in  the  lurch 
Because  they  stab  a  man,  or  rob  a  church. 
Also,  that  hog-priest-doctor,  Rabelais,  you  know, 
Kept  him  a  while,  then  bade  the  vagrant  go 
For  half  a  nightingale  and  half  a  crow. 
So  there  he  slips  from  sight.     Then  comes  a  tale 
That  stirs  our  rhyming  Duke.     I  must  not  fail 
To  know  the  sequel. 

DE  LUCE.  Months  went  by.     My  man 

I  had  no  need  for ;  soon  my  dame  began 


FRANCOIS   VILLON  205 

To  droop  and  wilt,  and,  too,  I  knew  not  why, 

To  watch  me  sidewise  with  attentive  eye, 

Or  stay  for  silent  hours  cloaked  with  thought, 

Laughing  or  weeping  readily  at  naught. 

What  changes  women?     A  wife  is  just  a  wife. 

The  thing  tormented  me,  for  now  her  life 

Faced  from  me  ever,  and,  her  head  bent  low, 

She  lived  with  some  worn  sonnet  or  rondeau 

Had  served  its  purpose.     Vexed  at  last,  I  took 

The  wretched  stuff,  the  whole  of  it,  and  shook 

The  fragments  to  the  winds.     Now,  by  St.  George ! 

The  thing  stuck  ever  bitter  in  my  gorge, 

That  such  a  peasant-slave's  mere  words  should  be 

The  one  strong  bond  that  held  this  love  to  me, 

That  was  my  life,  and  is.     Alas !  in  vain 

I  played  the  lover  over,  till  in  pain 

Because  she  pined,  poor  fool,  I  sought  again 

My  butt  of  verse  and  wine,  and  gaily  said, 

"  Here,  fellow,  there  's  for  drink  !    Set  me  your  head 

To  verse  me  something  honest,  that  shall  speak 

A  strong  man's  love,  and  to  my  lady's  cheek 

Fetch  back  its  rose  again."     But  as  for  him, 

This  hound,  he  studied  me  with  red  eyes,  dim 

And  dulled  with  wine,  and  lightly  laughing  cried, 

"  Not  I,  my  lord.     Not  ever,  if  I  tried 

The  longest  day  of  June.     Your  falcon  caught, 

Be  sure  no  jesses  by  another  wrought 

Will  hold  a  captive ;  "  and  with  rambling  talk 

Put  me  aside,  sang,  hummed,  took  up  the  chalk 

The  landlord  wont  to  score  his  drinks  withal. 

A  moment  paused,  and  scribbled  on  the  wall, 

"If  God  love  to  a  sexton  gave, 

Surely  he  would  dig  it  a  grave ; 


206  FRANCOIS   VILLON 

If  God  fitted  an  ass  with  wings, 
What  would  he  do  with  the  pretty  things  ?  " 
I  cursed  him  for  a  useless  sot,  but  he, 
Leering  and  heedless,  scrawled  unsteadily 
Just  "Wallow,  wallow,  wallow;  this  from  me 
To  all  wise  pigs  that  on  this  mad  earth  be ;  " 
Wrote  "  Franqois  Villon  "  underneath,  and  there, 
Smitten  with  drink,  dropped  on  the  nearest  chair 
And  slept  as  sleep  the  dead.     I  in  despair 
Went  on  my  way. 

But  she,  my  gentle  dame, 
Grew  slowly  feebler,  like  an  oilless  flame, 
Until  this  cursed  thing  happened.     On  a  day 
I  chanced  upon  her  singing,  joyous,  gay; 
Glad  leapt  my  hopes.     I  kissed  her,  saw  her  start, 
Grow  sudden  pale,  a  quick  hand  on  her  heart. — 
'Fore  God,  I  love  her  dearly,  but  I  tore 
A  paper  from  her  bosom,  yet  forbore 
One  darkened  moment's  time  to  read  it,  then 
Saw  the  wild  love  verse,  knew  what  drunken  pen 
Had  dared. — 

Fierce-eyed  she  stayed  a  little  space, 
Then  struck  me  red  with  words,  as  if  my  face 
A  man  had  struck,  said,  "  What  can  be  more  base 
Than  bribe  a  peasant  soul  to  win  with  thought 
Above  your  thinking  what  you  vainly  sought? 
/  love  you  ?     No  —  I  loved  the  man  who  knew 
To  tell  the  gladness  of  his  love  through  you; 
A  thief,  no  doubt;  and  pray  what  was  he  who 
Thus  stole  my  love?     You  lied!  and  he,  a  sot! 
A  sot,  you  say,  could  rise  above  his  pot, — 
You,  never !     Love  me !     Could  one  like  you  know 
In  love's  sweet  climate  truth  and  honor  grow?" 


FRANCOIS   VILLON  2O7 

But  I,  seeing  my  folly  clear,  said,  "  Isabeau, 
What  matters  it  if  I  but  used  the  flow 
Of  this  man's  fantasies  to  word  the  praise 
I  would  have  said  a  hundred  eager  ways 
And  moved  you  never?     Is  it  rare  one  pays 
A  man  to  sing? " 

"  Henceforth,  my  lord,"  said  she, 
"  We  talk  tongues  strange  to  each,  but  ever  he 
Talked  that  my  heart  knows  best.    Your  wife  am  I, 
That's  past  earth's  mending;  what  is  left  but  try 
To  weary  on  to  death?     What  else?"     I  turned, 
Cried,  "  But  I  loved  you  well !     This  boor  has 

earned 
A   traitor's    fate." 

"And  you,"  she  moaned;  nor  more, 
Save,  "  Let  all  traitors  die,"  and  on  the  floor 
Fell  in  a  heap. 

Thenceforward  half  distraught 
I  sought  my  poet-thief,  but  never  caught 
The  cunning  fiend,  till  as  it  chanced  one  night, 
My  horse  fallen  lame,  I,  walking,  saw  the  light 
Still  in  her  window.     There  below  it  stood 
A  man  where  fell  the  moonlight  all  aflood, 
And  suddenly  a  hand  of  mastery  swept 
The  zittern,  and  —  a  whining  love-song  leapt. 
Ah !  but  too  well  knew  I  the  song  he  sang; 
I  smiled  to  think  it  was  his  last.     It  rang 
Mad  chimes  within  my  head.     "  Now  then,"  I  cried, 
"  A  dog-life  for  a  love-life  !  "    Quick  aside 
My  poet  cast  his  zittern,  drew  his  sword, 
Tried  as  he  stood  his  footing  on  the  sward, 
And  laughed.     He  ever  laughed,  and  laughing  said, 
"  Before  we  two  cut  throats,  and  one  is  dead, 


208  FRANCOIS   VILLON 

And  talk  gets  quite  one-sided,  let  me  speak, 
Perchance  it  may  be  this  rat's  final  squeak ; 
Even  a  cat  grants  that,  my  lord,  you  know. 
Speak  certain  words  I  must  of  this  dame  Isabeau. 
And  if  you  will  not,  this  have  I  to  say, 
These  legs  of  mine  have  ofttimes  won  the  day, 
And  may  again  if  I  have  not  my  way. 
My  thanks.     You're  very  good,  and  now, —  what  if 
Full  twenty  dozen  times  a  week  a  whiff 
Of  some  sweet  rose  is  given  just  to  smell, 
The  rose  unseen, —  you  catch  my  meaning? — Well, 
One  haply  gets  rose-hungry,  and  erelong 
Desires  the  rose.     You  think  I  did  you  wrong 
Who  bade  you  see  her  as  one  sees  in  song, 
Her  neck,  her  face,  the  sun-gloss  of  her  hair, 
Eyes  such  as  poets  dream,  the  love-curves  fair; 
These  have  you  seen;  but  as  for  me,  they  were, 
Unseen  of  sense,  more  lovely. 

Mark,  my  lord, 

How  sweet  to-night  the  lilies.     Pray  afford 
A  moment  yet  to  my  life  out  of  yours.     Believe 
A  thing  so  strange  you  may  not,  nor  conceive: 
This  woman,  on  the  beauty  of  whose  face 
I  never  looked,  nor  shall, —  whose  virgin  grace 
I  sold  to  you, —  is  mine  while  time  endures. 
Yea,  for  your  malady  earth  has  no  cures ; 
A  brute,  a  thief  am  I  that  caged  this  love. 
A  sodden  poet !     Some  one  from  above 
Looks  on  us  both  to-night ;  you  nobly  born, 
I  in  the  sties  of  life.     I  do  repent 
In  that  I  wronged  this  lady  innocent. 
But  if  you  live  or  I,  where'er  she  bide, 
One  Francois  Villon  walketh  at  her  side. 


FRANgOIS    VILLON  209 

Kiss  her!     Your  kiss?     It  will  be  I  who  kiss. 
Yea,  every  dream  of  love  your  life  shall  miss 
I  shall  be  dreaming  ever ! 

Well,  the  cat, 

Patient  or  not,  has  waited.  As  for  that, 
Be  comforted.  Hell  never  lacks  reward 
For  them  that  serve  it.  Thanks. —  On  guard.  On 

guard." 

No  word  said  I.     Long  had  I  listened,  dazed. 
Now  scorn  broke  out  in  hatred ;  crazed, 
Fiercely  I  lunged.     He,  laughing,  scarce  so  rash, 
Parried  and  touched  my  arm.     The  rapier  clash 
Went  wild  a  minute ;  then  a  woman's  cry 
Broke  from  the  hedge  behind  him,  and  near  by 
Some  moonlit  whiteness  gleamed.    He  turned,  and  I, 
By  heaven  !  't  was  none  too  soon,  I  drove  my  sword 
Clean  through  the  peasant  dog  from  point  to  guard, 
And  held  her  as  I  watched  him.     Better  men 
A  many  have  I  killed,  but  this  man ! —  Then 
He  staggered,  reeling,  clutched  at  empty  air 
And  at  his  breast,  and  pitching  here  and  there, 
Fell,  shuddered,  and  was  dead. 

By  Mary's  grace, 
The  woman  kneeling  kissed  the  dead  dog's  face ! 

Take  you  the  Duke  my  tale.     The  woman  lives. 
The    man    is    dead.     None    knows    but    she.     What 

gives 

Such  needless  haste  to  go?     T  is  not  yet  late. 
Think  you  the  story  of  this  peasant's  fate 
Will  vex  Duke  Charles?     How  looks  the  thing  to 

you? 
Xo  comment?     None? 


210  FRANgOJS    VILLON 

DE  LILLE.  None  I  could  well  afford 

To  speak.     The  Duke  must  judge,  not  I. 

DE  LUCE.  My  lord, 

Your  fashions  like  me  not,  and  plainly,  mine 
Are  somewhat  franker. 

DE  LILLE.  I  must  ride.     The  wine? 

DE  LUCE. 

I  pay  for  that.     The  man  who  drinks  must  pay. 
"  The  wine  of  friendship  lasteth  but  a  day," 
So  said  that  pot-house  Solomon.     I  suppose 
'T  is  easily  thinned  with  time.     As  this  world  goes, 
A  sorry  vintage. 

1890. 


THE    MISER 

A     MASQUE 
TIME:   The  Fifteenth  Century.    Midnight. 

Iron  boxes.  A  table  strewn  with  jewels,  trinkets,  and 
coin.  An  hour-glass.  An  old  man  walks  to  and  fro. 
(A  knock  is  heard.} 

MISER. 

Come  in.  [Covers  the  jewels  with  a  cloth. 

Enter  a  Woman,  who  unmasks. 
What  wouldst  thou,  wench?     Hast  aught  to  sell? 

WOMAN. 

I've  that  to  sell  for  which  men  give  their  souls 

MISER. 

Alack !  their  souls.     Go  seek  yon  market-place, 
And  learn  what  usury  a  soul  will  fetch. 
The  body  of  a  man  may  sweat  you  gold, 
Plow,  sow,  and  reap,  yet  at  the  end  be  apt 
As  other  carrion  to  fatten  grapes. 
How  came  you  in?     They  keep  slack  guard  below. 
211 


212  THE    MISER 

WOMAN. 

Good  looks,  like  gold,  pass  anywhere  on  earth  — 

[Sings 

A  man  and  a  maid 
The  warder  prayed. 
Here  is  gold,  said  he, 
But  a  look  gave  she ; 
Sweet  eyes  went  in, 
And  the  man  was  stayed. 
For  this  is  the  way 
The  world  to  win, 
The  world  to  win. 
Honey  of  kisses, 
Honey  of  sin, — 
This  is  the  way 
The   world   to   win. 

MISER. 

Ay.     The   fool's   world,   not   mine.     The  hour-glass 
wastes. 

WOMAN. 

Forget  to  turn  it,  and  the  hour  is  thine. 
That  minds  me  what  the  priest  said  Easter-eve : 
The  devil  owns  the  minutes,  God  the  years. 
What  think  you  that  he  meant? 

MISER.  Nay,  ask  of  him. 

Age  hath  its  secrets.     Time  shall  sow  for  thee 
Betwixt  thy  grand-dame  wrinkles  answers  meet. 
Thy  errand,  girl ! 

WOMAN.  Look  in  my  face,  and  learn. 


THE    MISER  213 

MISER. 

By  Venus !     I  have  read  that  scroll  too  oft. 
Eyes  that  say,  Yes !  and  lips  that  murmur,  No ! 
The  red  cheeks'  mock-surrender.     All  the  cheats 
That  make  to-morrow  lie  to  yesterday. 

WOMAN. 

Like  a  philosopher  lies  yesterday, 

To-morrow  like  a  poet;  but  to-day 

Is  true  until  to-morrow  makes  it  lie. 

What  if  the  minute's  coin  that  buys  thee  joy 

Ring  false  the  morrow  morn !     How  old  you  look ! 

Kiss  me,  and  live.     A  ducat  for  a  kiss ! 

A  ducat  each  for  these  two  eyes  of  mine ! 

MISER. 

A  ducat !     By  St.  Mercury  !  not  I, — 
A  thing  unchanging  for  a  thing  that  dies. 
I  've  been  the  fool  of  women,  wit,  and  wine; 
Have  argued  much  with  doctors ;  had  my  fill, 
Ay  that  was  best,  of  battle's  stormy  fate; 
Have  fooled  and  have  been  fooled,  been  loved  and 
loved. 

WOMAN. 

Were  any  like  to  me? 

MISER.  The  lips  I  love 

Betray  me  not  at  each  new  gallant's  suit. 
What  are  thy  charms  to  these? 

[Walks  across  the  room,  and  returns  with  a  casket 
of  gold  coins,  while  the  Woman  hastily  looks 
under  the  table-cover  and  replaces  it. 

See,  this  and  this  ! 


214  THE    MISER 

[Shows  her  gold  medals. 

Hast  thou  the  eyes  of  Egypt's  haughty  queen? 
These  eager  lips  that  kissed  a  world  away? 
Lo,  here  Zenobia, —  wisdom,  beauty,  grace. 
Match  me  this  warrior  maid  —  this  huntress  lithe 
Set  in  the  changeless  chastity  of  gold. 

WOMAN. 

Their  lips  are  cold.     A  ducat  for  a  kiss ! 

MISER. 

Nay,  get  thee  gone.     Here  's  something  sweeter  far 
Than  wanton  vouches  of  a  woman's  lips. 

WOMAN. 

I  would  not  kiss  thee  for  a  world  of  ducats. 

[Exit  Woman,  who  whispers,  as  she  goes,  to  a 
gentleman  who  enters,  clad  in  a  red  cloak,  hat, 
and  cock's  feather. 

MISER. 

Who  let  thee  in? 

GENTLEMAN.  A  girl,  fair  sir, —  a  girl. 

Quite  often  't  is  a  girl  that  lets  me  in ! 

MISER. 

Who  art  thou? 

GENTLEMAN.  Many  people.     Part  of  all, 

For  well-bred  gentlemen  "  my  Lord  Duke   Satan," 

thus 

Here  somewhat  late  to  thank  you.     Truly,  sir, 
To  sum  the  seed  of  sin  you  Ve  sown  for  me 
Would  puzzle  the  arithmetic  of  —  Well, 


THE    MISER  215 

One  speaks  not  lightly  of  his  home.     My  thanks. 
Give  me  your  hand,  good  friend. 

MISER.  Art  drunk  !     Begone  ! 

GENTLEMAN. 

Alas !     How  sad,  not  know  me.     Gratitude 

Is  rare  in  either  world.     Yet  men,  I  note, 

Know  not  themselves,  and  therefore  know  not  me. 

MISER. 

The  jest  is  good. 

GENTLEMAN.  What,  I  —  I,  Satan,  jest! 

How  hard  to  satisfy !     Unhelped  by  me, 
What  hadst  thou  been  ?     Lo,  under  this  frail  cloth 

[Touches  the  table-cover. 
There  lie  the  pledges  of  a  hundred  souls: 
That  zone  of  pearls !     That  ruby  coronal ! 

MISER. 

Thou  liest,  fool ! 

GENTLEMAN.  The  ring, —  the  sapphire  ring. 


MISER. 

The  thing  is  strange. 


GENTLEMAN  Nay,  gentle  partner,  nay. 

Behold,  I  come  to  thee  in  sore  distress, 
A  bankrupt  devil.     Why?     It  matters  not. 
Perhaps  I  gambled  for  the  morning  star, 
Gambled  with  Lucifer;  in  want,  perchance, 


2l6  THE    MISER 

For  reason  good,  of  some  less  sin-worn  world. 
Brothers  are  we.     No  need  for  us  to  pray 
Deliverance  from  temptation  —  to  do  good. 
Not  equals  quite.     A  trifle  thou  dost  lack 
Thy  master  's  joy  in  evil  for  itself. 
Only  the  crack-brained  sin  for  love  of  sin, 
And  crime  is  wretchedly  alloyed  with  good. 
Ho  !  for  one  honest  sinner  ! 

MISER.  Out,  foul  fiend ! 

GENTLEMAN. 

To  waste  your  hours  were  but  to  squander  mine. 
Ha  !     Shall  I  take  my  own  ? 

[Pulls  off  the  table-cover. 

MISER.  Without  there  !     Help  ! 

Help  —  help  —  a  thief  ! 

GENTLEMAN.  Nay.     Let  me  choose  my  coins, 

Let  me  confess  them.     They  have  tales  to  tell. 
I  am  a  devil-poet,  and  can  see 
Beneath  the  skin  of  things. 
[Takes  coins  in  turn.']     On  this  is  writ 
A  maiden's  honor  gone.     And  here  is  one 
Helped  the  black  barter  of  a  traitor's  soul. 
This  'gainst  a  priestly  conscience  turned  the  scale. 
And  this  is  red  with  murder.     See,  gray  hairs 
Stick  to  it  yet.     Alas  for  charity ! 
Not  one, —  not  one.     The  devil  has  no  friend 

[A  knock  is  heard. 
Save  him  that  enters. 

[Opens  the  door  to  the  cowled  figure,  DEATH. 


THE    MISER  217 

Pray  thee,  sir,  come  in. 
Lo,  my  best  friend !  the  scavenger  of  time, 
Who  picks  from  off  this  dust-heap  called  a  world 
The  scared  and  hurried  ants  that  come  and  go 
Without  a  whence  or  whither  worth  a  thought. 
Be  easy  with  this  partner  of  my  cares. 
This  greedy  dotard  drunk  with  guzzling  gold 
Spare  me  a  little.     Take  thou  hence  the  good, 
The  fair,  the  young,  the  chaste,  the  innocent. 

[To  the  MISER. 

Good-night,  my  friend.     I  leave  you  one  who  owns 
The  only  truth  this  stupid  planet  holds. 

[Exit  Gentleman. 
MISER. 

What  feast  of  folly  hath  broke  loose  to-night? 
Who  art  thou? 

DEATH.  Death ! 

MISER.  The  devil  and  then  Death  ! 

Thou  hast  the  play  the  wrong  end  first,  my  friend. 

[Laughs. 

DEATH. 

Then  laugh  again.     Full  many  a  year  has  fled 
Since  sound  of  laughter  crackled  in  mine  ears. 
There  are  who  face  me  smiling.     Men  like  thee, 
Who  gather  ducats  as  I  reap  the  years, 
To  add  them  to  the  gathered  hoard  of  time ; 
Yea,  men  like  thee,  who  poison  souls  for  gain, 
And  love  life  for  its  baseness,  mock  not  me. 
Only  the  noble  and  the  wretched  smile 
When  these  lean  fingers  summon  to  the  grave. 
Thy  day  is  near;  even  now  the  clogging  blood 


2l8  THE    MISER 

Chills  stagnant  at  my  touch,  and  soon  for  thee 
Shall  come  the  yellow  hags  to  stretch  thy  limbs, 
And  put  the  coins  upon  thy  staring  eyes. 

[MISER  falls  into  a  chair. 

MISER. 

What  cruel  jest  is  this?     I  pray  thee  go. 
My  heart  beats  riotous,  my  legs  grow  weak. 

DEATH. 

Give  me  a  hundred  ducats. 

MISER.  I !     Not  one. 

DEATH. 

A  hundred  ducats  for  a  year  of  greed. 

MISER. 

Not  one,  I  say. 

DEATH.  Then,  to  that  nether  world. 

Two  days  I  grant  thee,  till  upon  the  stair 
Thy  coffined  weight  shall  creak,  and  other  hands 
Shall  count  thy  ducats. 

MISER.  Take  thou  ten,  and  go. 

DEATH. 

Ten  ducats  for  a  journey  round  the  world! 

MISER. 

Nay,  nay,  not  one.     Thou  surely  art  not  Death. 

DEATH. 

Already  on  thy  sallow  cheek  I  see 

The  set  grim  smile  which  hardens  on  the  face 


THE    MISER  219 

When  death  unriddles  life;  thy  jaw  hangs  slack; 
The  sweat  wherewith  man  labors  unto  death 
Drops  from  thy  brow. 

MISER.  Take  what  thou  wilt,  and  go. 

Hast  said  a  hundred  ducats.     Take  but  that. 
Take  them  and  leave  me.     Not  a  ducat  more. 

[Death  takes  a  bag. 
DEATH. 

For  this  I  give  thee  many  a  lingering  year. 
Without  there,  gentlemen !   Come  in,  come  in ! 
[Enter  PRINCE  masked,  the  Court  Fool  as  Mephis- 
topheles,  women  and  courtiers  in  fancy  dress. 
The  MISER  leaps  up. 

MISER. 

What  robber-band  is  this? 

PRINCE.  A  jest,  my  friend. 

GENTLEMAN. 

The  Prince  has  lost  his  wager.     Death  has  won. 

DEATH. 

To  supper,  gentlemen.     Here  's  that  shall  pay. 

MISER. 

My  gold  !     Alas,  my  gold  ! 

DEATH.  But  yet  you  live. 

[Exeunt  maskers  singing. 
1884. 


THE  WAGER 

TIME,  1650.     Twilight 
The  Duke's  garden  near  Tours. 

CLAIRE  DE  CHASTEL  BLANC,  a  lady  of  the  Duchess. 

RENE  LA  TOUR. 

THE  VICOMTE  DE  LANCIVAL. 

LA  TOUR  walks  moodily  to  and  fro. 

LA  TOUR.     Five  years  ago  in  this  same  garden  space 
I  fled  the  mockery  of  a  smiling  face. 
Upon  my  soul,  I  was  a  love-sick  lad; 
A  baser  man  perchance  had  won;  I  had 
The  self-accusing  modesty  of  love, 
That  by  its  proud  humility  doth  prove 
How  honest  is  its  nature.     Since  that  day 
Our  feet  have  trod,  alas !  a  diverse  way  — 
Mine  as  the  devil  guided,  hers  to  find 
A  man  to  match  the  lightness  of  her  mind. 
So  runs  the  world ;  and  always,  I  suppose, 
The  thorns  outlast  for  many  a  year  the  rose. 
What  is  there  memory  may  care  to  keep 
Of  her  life  or  of  mine?     I  basely  heap 

220 


THE   WAGER  221 

Dull  days  on  sorrier  yesterdays:  what  more 

Is  left  to  me  ?     And  yet  —  and  yet  before 

I  loved  this  woman  and  she  bade  me  go 

For  but  a  love-struck  boy,  I  used  to  know 

Far  other  dreams  than  such  as  madly  keep 

The  wild  days  reeling  through  the  hours  of  sleep. 

[Pauses. 

So,  here  it  was  I  sang  my  pretty  way 
To  steal  in  sleep  a  heart  was  cold  by  day. 
How  long  ago  it  seems !     I  used  to  sing 
Not  very  ill.     Ah  me!     How  ran  the  thing? 

[He  sings  as  l\e  walks. 

Sleep  on  !     Sleep  on  !     Thou  canst  not  fly ; 

Thou  art  the  gentle  thrall  of  sleep. 
Thy  captured  dreams  in  vain  may  try 

The  daylight's  cold  reserve  to  keep. 

Sleep  on !     Those  watchful  eyes  that  be 

Thy  maiden  sentinels  by  day 
No  more  shall  keep  their  guard  for  thee, 

Sweet  foes  that  warned  my  love  away. 

And  I  will  kiss  thee  with  a  song — 

A  modest  way  to  kiss!     I  have  it  wrong; 

And  all  the  rest,  like  love,  has  taken  wings 

And  gone  the  deuce  knows  whither.     If  some  things 

Were  like  a  song,  as  readily  forgot, 

Man's  fate  on  earth  might  prove  a  happier  lot. 

[A  servant  enters  with  a  letter.  LA  TOUR  takes  it 
and  stands  in  thought,  smiling.  He  opens  it  in 
an  absent  way,  not  yet  reading  it. 


222  THE    WAGER 

Here  is  the  woman's  name  I  was  to  learn 
This  morning.     Well,  I  trust  the  lips  that  earn 
My  needed  ducats  are  not  old.     By  heaven ! 
That  were  an  insult  scarce  to  be  forgiven, 
A  jest  to  cost  some  drunken  reveller  dear. 

[Glances  at  the  letter. 

"  Claire !  —  Claire  de  Chastel  Blanc."     I  did  not  hear 
That  name  among  the  many  tossed  about 
On  ribald  lips  last  night.     Perhaps  a  doubt, 
Or  the  Duke's  presence,  or  a  friend  who  knew 
To  check  some  reckless  sot,  held  back  the  crew, 
Till  at  the  gray  of  dawn  I  homeward  went, 
And  left  them  babbling,  on  a  choice  intent. 

[He  walks  to  and  fro,  in  thought,  and  then  slowly 

tears  up  the  letter,  retaining  the  fragments. 
Now,  I  '11  not  do  it !     This  mad  bet  of  mine, 
The  bastard  child  of  folly  and  of  wine, 
Has  somehow  lost  to-day  its  vinous  zest, 
And,  in  the  sober  light  of  morn  confessed, 
Stirs  certain  memories.     Now,  there  's  my  lord  — 
Her  lord  —  will  fume  and  talk  about  his  sword, 
And  then  is  just  as  like  as  not,  I  think, 
To  pouch  the  insult  and  forget  in  drink. 
What  of  the  woman?    Wherefore  should  I  spare 
The  lips  that  spared  not  me?    Why  should  I  care? 

[Pauses. 
I  will  not  do  it. 

[As  he  speaks  he  casts  away  the  torn  paper  and 
zvanders  aimlessly  to  and  fro  in  the  Duke's  gar 
den.  Of  a  sudden  he  sees  Claire  seated  and  busy 
with  the  roses  lying  in  her  lap. 
(Aside.)     '  By  St.  Opportune, 

Who  doth  for  mischief  match  the  naughty  moon ! 


THE   WAGER  223 

What  devil  set  this  trap  for  me  who  meant 

To  swear  the  wager  lost,  and  well  content 

To  pay  and  end  it,  duly  penitent 

And  out  of  pocket?     What  would  she  have  lost? 

The  fool  who  is  her  lover  scarce  will  miss 

One  kiss  subtracted  from  his  sum  of  bliss. 

Now,  good  St.  Anthony,  who  ought  to  be 

The  friend  of  men  sore  tempted,  pray  for  me;  — 

You  were  not  tempted,  for  you  knew  not  love. 

[Coming  up   behind  CLAIRE,   he  bends   over  and 
kisses  her.     She  starts  to  her  feet. 

CLAIRE.     Now,  by  dear  Marie  and  all  saints  above, 
You  —  Rene  —  kissed  me  ! 

LA  TOUR.  Yes,  and,  on  my  soul, 

I  'm  glad  and  sorry :  that  sums  up  the  whole, 
The  sin  and  penance;  larger  joy  and  pain 
Than  ever  I  shall  know  in  life  again.  [She  is  silent. 

For  God's  sake,  speak  to  me;  say  something,  Claire. 

CLAIRE.     Your  shame  lacks  courage,  sir;  how  could 
you  dare? 

LA  TOUR.     Fate,  fortune,  luck,  have  never  known  to 

spare 

Head,  heart,  or  purse  of  mine.     'T  is  very  rare 
My  follies  pay  as  well.     How  could  I  dare? 
The  question  's  childlike,  madam.     What !  in  tears  ! 
These  were  not  counted  in  my  list  of  fears. 

CLAIRE.  An  idle  gossip  warned  me  yestereve 
Of  this,  and  you;  yet  how  could  I  believe 
Of  one  who  once  —  no  matter.     What  I  said 
Did  cost  one  shameless  cheek  its  share  of  red. 
He  little  liked  my  comment;  nor  would  you 
Who  tossed  about  amid  a  gambling  crew 


224  THE   WAGER 

What  estimate  to  put  upon  a  kiss, 

And  set  its  worth  at  haply  that  or  this. 

He,  laughing,  swore  the  chivalry  of  wine 

Did  make  you  set  a  double  price  on  mine. 

You  gaily  urged,  they  say,  that  stolen  fruit 

Is  ever  sweeter.     May  I  ask,  to  suit 

The  pretty  poetry  of  tavern  hours, 

If  that  be  also  true  of  stolen  flowers? 

What  need  to  talk?     You  have  the  prize  you  sought, 

A  courteous  wager ! 

LA  TOUR.  Madame,  he  who  brought 

This  garnished  story  lied. 

CLAIRE.  It  matters  naught; 

A  man  shall  question  you. 

LA  TOUR.  That  were  but  just; 

In  point  of  fact,  I  really  think  he  must; 
And  'twixt  a  tongue-stab  and  a  rapier-thrust 
I  gladly  choose  the  latter;  but  why  both 
To  punish  one  who  never  yet  was  loath 
To  face  a  man?     Before  a  mistress'  tongue 
I  cry  for  pity  as  I  did  when  young. 
Down  goes  my  flag;  I  counted  not  the  cost, 
Else  had  this  silly  bet  been  gladly  lost. 

CLAIRE.     Jest  if  it  please  you.     Better  men  have  died 
For  lighter  cause  than  this. 

LA  TOUR.  So,  I  am  tried, 

Condemned  past  hope.     Ah,  Claire,  thou  ever  art 
The  same  cold  woman.     Could  I  call  my  heart 
To  witness  for  me  — 

CLAIRE.  T  is  a  feebler  jest. 

LA  TOUR.     Perhaps !   perhaps !     But  let  me  be 
confessed. 


THE    WAGER  225 

Give  one  decree  to  die  his  little  hour. 
The  gay  temptation  of  a  minute's  power 
Set  in  my  way  the  honey  of  a  flower; 
And,  by  your  leave,  we  '11  say  it  was  a  rose 
The  bee-god  Cupid  robbed;  and,  I  suppose, 
A  dainty  diet,  to  be  held  more  sweet 
Than  common  clover  honey. 

CLAIRE.  You  may  treat 

This  insult  lightly  — 

LA  TOUR.  Madam,  I  believe 

Men  have  kissed  women  since  the  days  of  Eve; 
'T  is  very  frequent.     Such  fair  goods,  you  know, 
Are  bartered,  stolen,  sold  or  high  or  low; 
The  market  varies.     One  may  cost  a  life, 
A  curse,  a  kingdom,  win  or  lose  a  wife. 

[LA  TOUR  pauses,  while  CLAIRE  stands  in  silence. 
Have  you  no  answer,  madam?     I  have  tried 
Love,  logic,  penitence,  have  not  denied 
The  muse  her  pretty  privilege  to  defend 
This  naughty  brigand  here  without  a  friend. 
Now,  what's  a  kiss  that  naught  can  it  atone? 

CLAIRE.     The  trembling  scales  of  loyal  love  alone 
May  know  to  weigh  this  coin  of  nature's  own. 
You  cast  the  shadow  of  a  nameless  fear, 
You  left  the  memory  of  an  angry  tear. 
Go !     I  could  wish  that  you  were  lying  dead, 
Ay,  here,  to-night,  ere  this  had  need  been  said. 

LA  TOUR.     Am  I  so  surely  hated? 

CLAIRE.  Call  it  hate, 

Contempt  —  a  woman's  sorrow. 

[She  moves  away. 
LA  TOUR.  Pray  you  wait. 


226  THE   WAGER 

What  if  I  swear  this  wager,  wildly  made, 
Was  lost?     Wilt  say  —  ? 

CLAIRE.  That  you  were  more   afraid 

Than  fits  a  man. 

LA  TOUR.  Yes,  that  may  well  be  said. 

'T  is  you  I  fear. 

CLAIRE.  Me  !     There  was  once  an  hour, 

Oh,  very  long  ago,  should  still  have  power 
To  hurt  you  now.     What  is  there  more  to  say? 

LA  TOUR.     Yes,  there  are  ghosts  no  priest  has  power 

to  lay; 

One  is  to-morrow,  one  is  yesterday; 
Both  have  your  words  called  up  to-night  for  me. 
But  ghosts  like  these  at  least  do  set  one  free 
From  such  poor  scare-souls  as  an  honest  blade. 
That  lays  all  spectres !     Madam,  undismayed 
I  bow  before  my  judge  and  glad  accept 
The  fate  this  wretched  hour  for  me  has  kept. 
And  for  De  Lancival,  I  promise  he 
Shall  in  the  quickest  blade  of  Picardy 
Find  naught  to  hinder  what  your  lips  decree. 
Say, —  when  you  think  upon  this  hour  and  me, — 
"  He  loved  me  once."     Be  that  slight  epitaph 
Deep  graven  where  the  miserable  half 
Of  life's  most  worthless  memories  serves  to  keep 
Some  fading  thought  of  such  as,  thankful,  sleep, 
And  wake  no  more  on  earth. 

CLAIRE.  You  loved  me? 

LA  TOUR.  Ay. 

CLAIRE.     How  can  it  be?     If  once  you  loved  me,  why, 
Why  did  your  folly  choose  of  all  who  live, 
Of  all  fair  women,  me  alone  to  give 


THE   WAGER  227 

This  tavern  feast  a  flavor?     Pray  you  go. 
The  modest  gentleman  I  seemed  to  know 
In  memory,  kindly,  tender,  brave,  and  true, 
Died  very  long  ago.     He  is  not  you. 
As  willingly  would  I  forget  this  night 
And  think  it  also  dead.     You  won  the  right 
To  claim  your  wager. 

LA  TOUR.  Madam,  it  is  I 

Shall  tell  the  Viscount,  and  with  me  shall  die, 
I  promise  you,  this  story.     I  shall  pay 
With  what  this  wrecked  life  owns  of  life.     I  pray, 
As  God  is  good,  your  pardon.     Fare  you  well. 

CLAIRE.     Wait  —  wait  a  moment.     No,  you  shall  not 
tell. 

LA  TOUR.     And  why  not,  madam? 

CLAIRE.  Hush ! 

[DE  LANCIVAL  approaches,  singing. 

DE  LANCIVAL.     He  kissed  her  twice, 
Or  was  it  thrice? 
Oh,  what  will  kisses  fetch? 

You  may  buy  a  score 

For  a  louis  d'or. 
Now,  that 's  a  pretty  catch. 

Out  with  it,  Claire. 

What  fortune  had  he?     Did  he  really  dare? 
No  need  to  go,  La  Tour.     We  all  have  heard. 
Oh,  there  were  bets  on  it.     Right  well  it  stirred 
The  inn's  good  fellows.     I,  too,  had  my  bet 
La  Tour  would  lose. 

CLAIRE.  Indeed ! 


228  THE    WAGER 

LA  TOUR.  At  what  was  set 

My  beggared  chance  of  fortune? 

DE  LANCIVAL.  I  forget. 

CLAIRE.     I,  too,  am  curious. 

DE  LANCIVAL.  I  am  not  clear 

How  much  it  was;  a  very  trifle,  dear: 
Some  dozen  louis  —  hardly  worth  one's  while. 

CLAIRE.     Yet  it  might  set  the  value  of  — 

LA  TOUR.  A  smile  — 

DE  LANCIVAL.     Who  said   a   smile?     'T  was   nothing 
but  a  kiss. 

CLAIRE.     They  make   fair  company.     Perchance  to 

miss 

The  gracious  comment  of  a  smile  might  take 
Some  value  from  the  lips'  resort,  and  make 
Their  rosy  honors  less. 

DE  LANCIVAL.  What  did  I  bet? 

[Searches  his  tablets. 

I  had  it  yesternight.     Just  here  't  was  set, 
Upon  my  honor ! 

LA  TOUR.  That 's  a  pious  oath 

That  no  commandment  breaks. 

DE  LANCIVAL.  St.  Denis!     Both 

Are  set  to  read  me  riddles.     I  for  one  — 

LA  TOUR.     An  easy  riddle.     Nowhere  'neath  the  sun 
On  land  or  sea  the  thing  is  found.     Pardie ! 
Swear  by  a  thing  less  mortal. 

DE  LANCIVAL.  I  make  free 

To  think  you  mock  me.     But  who  was  it  won? 

LA  TOUR.     I  won,  my  lord.     The  trick  was  neatly 
done. 

DE  LANCIVAL.     You  won?     Claire!  Claire! 


THE   WAGER  229 

LA  TOUR.  Indeed,  it  so  befell, 

I  won  my  ducats  and  some  thoughts  as  well 
A  man  could  do  without. 

CLAIRE.  It  is  not  true. 

The  beau  sire  jests  —  no  courteous  thing  to  do. 

LA  TOUR.     By  Venus,  I  have  but  my  word  to  give. 
Here  as  she  sat  I  kissed  her,  as  I  live ! 

DE  LANCIVAL.     Ye  saints !     The  man  has  luck.     Now, 

when  I  bring 

This  news  to-night,  the  tavern  roof  will  ring. 
I  never  dared  as  much.     To  kiss  her  hand 
Was  my  slim  ration.     I  may  understand 
You  really  kissed  her? 

LA  TOUR.  Yes. 

DE  LANCIVAL.  Well  —  as  one  may 

Kiss  any  woman  for  a  wager's  play; 
Had  she  kissed  you  I  should  have  more  to  say. 

CLAIRE.     Then  take  the  truth :  I  kissed  him  as  he  lay 
A-sleeping  in  the  garden.     Now,  sir,  pray, 
What  is  it  more  your  lordship  has  to  say? 

DE  LANCIVAL.     You  kissed  La  Tour? 

CLAIRE.  I  did. 

DE  LANCIVAL.  Now,  by  my  sword  — 

LA  TOUR.    That's  near  kin  to  cursing.   Well,  my  lord — 

DE  LANCIVAL.     Is  this  a  jest? 

CLAIRE.  That  may  somewhat  depend 

On  how  a  maudlin  tragedy  shall  end. 

LA  TOUR.     I  wait  your  orders,  Viscount. 

DE  LANCIVAL.  Nonsense !     Why 

Should  you  or  I  for  such  a  trifle  die? 
Yet,  as  a  friend,  La  Tour,  I  take  fair  leave 
To  doubt  her  story. 


230  THE    WAGER 

LA  TOUR.  Then,  my  lord, —  I  grieve 

To  put  it  coarsely, —  does  this  lady  lie? 
I  wait  your  answer.     Is  it  she  or  I  ? 
She  doth  depose  to  kissing  one  La  Tour. 
He  swears  in  turn  and  is  devoutly  sure 
He  kissed  the  lady.     Neither  doth  exclude 
Belief  in  either.     You,  my  lord,  are  shrewd. 
Which  is  the  sinner? 

CLAIRE.  Stay,  sir. 

DE  LANCIVAL.  You  shall  hear 

From  me  to-morrow. 

LA  TOUR.  And  why  not  next  year? 

Had  I  once  loved  this  gentle  lady's  face 
His  shrift  were  short,  and  small  his  chance  of  grace, 
That  dared  to  think  those  haughty  lips  could  kiss 
A  man  whom,  dead,  no  man  on  earth  would  miss 
Save  some  poor  tapster.     Sir,  you  seem  to  show 
Small  skill  at  riddles.     Follow  me. 

CLAIRE.  No,  no. 

Here  must  it  end.     A  most  unseemly  brawl ! 
I  '11  have  no  more  of  it.     It  does  not  call 
For  such  grave  consequences.     Let  it  end. 

DE  LANCIVAL.     With  all  my  heart ;  and  now,  to  surely 

mend 

A  needless  quarrel,  I,  for  one,  agree 
A  kiss,  my  mischief-brewing  maid,  shall  be 
My  own  reward,  his  ransom. 

CLAIRE.  Here  must  stop 

This  tragedy,  which  seems  inclined  to  drop 
To  something  comic.     I  have  long  endured 
A  bond  not  of  my  making.     Rest  assured 
This  day  forever  breaks  it. 


THE   WAGER  231 

LA  TOUR.  And  beware, 

Be  very  careful  that  you  do  not  share 
This  tale  with  tap-room  friends.     Remember,  too, 
I  lost  this  wager  and  will  pay  my  due. 

DE  LANCIVAL.     When  once  the  wine  is  out  comes 

folly  in. 

So  said  the  Duke,  and  bet  that  you  would  win 
And  vow  you  did  not.     For  my  lady  there, 
She  '11  change  her  mind  to-morrow.     I  can  bear 
My  tenth  dismissal  gaily. 

\He  goes  away  singing. 

"  I  would  I  were  a  priest," 

Quoth  the  devil; 
"  I  would  shrive  me  twice  a  day 

And  then  revel." 
"  I  would  I  were  a  girl," 

Quoth  the  devil, 
"  With  a  lie  in  every  curl." 

LA  TOUR.  He  shall  rue 

This  insolence. 

CLAIRE.  No,  Rene.     What  of  you? 

LA  TOUR.     No  more  of  me.     I  rid  you  of  a  fool 
Who  went  his  way  as  unconcerned  and  cool 
As  though  love's  perfect  roses  knew  to  grow 
On  every  hedge.     Now  have  I  also  earned 
The  tardy  wages  of  a  fool,  and  learned 
Too  late  the  lesson  of  a  vain  regret 
For  what  life  might  have  been. 

CLAIRE.  And  yet  —  and  yet  — 


232  THE    WAGER 

LA   TOUR.     By   heaven,   do   not  trifle  with   me   now ! 

Take  care ! 

Think  ere  you  speak.     Be  very  certain,  Claire. 
Hope  was  so  dead.     I  count  it  no  light  thing 
To  give  love's  winter  rose  a  day  of  spring. 
You  tremble,  hesitate  — 

[Voices  from  a  distance  call,  "Claire,  Claire!"  LA 
TOUR  seizes  her  hand  as  she  turns  to  go. 

Ah,  let  me  share 

Your  heart's  wise  counsel,  Claire.     I  pray  you  spare 
A  man  twice  hurt.     Give  me  a  minute,  one  — 

[Voices  call  her.     She  moves  away  in  haste. 
You  cannot  leave  me  thus. 

CLAIRE.  Sir,  I  have  done. 

You  won  your  bet.     But  what,  sir,  gave  the  right 
To  think  you  won  a  heart? 

[The  voices  approach. 
Enough.     Good-night. 

[LA  TOUR  looks  after  her  until  she  is  lost  behind  a 
hedge  in  the  twilight. 

LA  TOUR.     The  man  is  gone  to  heal  his  petty  smart 
With  wine,  sure  balsam  for  a  broken  heart. 
A  comedy  ?     Perhaps  !     And,  by  the  rood, 
The  plot  unlooked  for  and  the  acting  shrewd: 
A  stately  woman,  resolute  and  sweet, 
A  bragging  coward;  and,  to  be  complete, 
This  tavern  hero,  with,  one  ought  to  state, 
King  of  the  stage,  Life's  greatest  actor,  Fate ! 
I  served  her  purpose  well,  and  so  once  more  — 
I  ever  the  sad  loser  as  before  — 
We  part.     The  usual  ending,  exeunt  all. 
And  for  the  moral :  It  doth  oft  befall 


THE   WAGER  233 

One  woman  pays  with  usury  the  debts 
Of  that  half-dozen  maids  a  man  forgets. 

[A  glove  cast  over  the  hedge  falls  at  LA  TOUR'S 

feet;  he  picks  it  up. 

I  would  it  were  my  lord's.     A  woman's  glove ! 
CLAIRE.     What  rhymes  to  that? 

LA  TOUR.  .  By  every  saint  above, 

How  should  I  know? 

CLAIRE.  Why  not  a  woman's  love? 

1897. 


BARABBAS 

Tents  in  the  hills  north  of  Bethlehem.  Evening,  near 
to  dusk.  An  aged  Hebrew  standing  before  a  tent 
chants. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONAE: 
AMPLIAS.     YACOB.     BARABBAS.     DAVID. 

YACOB. 

When  He  opens  the  gates  of  the  morning, 

Bow  lowly  to  pray. 

When  He  closes  the  gates  of  the  evening, 

Thank  Him  for  thy  day. 

Enter  His  courts  with  thanksgiving, 

Enter  with  praise; 

The  gates  of  His  Mercy  are  open 

All  gracious  His  ways. 

[He  ceases  and  watches  a  lad,  who  comes  quickly. 
Why  are  you  here?     I  trust  the  flocks  are  safe. 

i 
I 

DAVID. 

The  shepherd  guards  them  and  they  cannot  stray. 
I  saw  two  strangers  corning;  one  seemed  blind. 
I  thought  them  lost,  but  he  who  could  not  see 
Said  to  the  other,  "  Come,  some  tents  are  near, 
We  shall  find  friends."     But  then  the  other  said, 
234 


BARABBAS  235 

"  Or  quite  as  likely  Arab  plunderers." 

Then  I  thought  fit  to  say,  "  A  welcome  waits ; 

My  father's  tents  lie  yonder.     Follow  me." 

The  young   man   answered,   "  We   must  trust  your 

words. 

This  blind  man  found  me  wandering  and  starved ; 
He  gave  me  food  and  water,  saying,  '  Come ! ' 
I  followed  him  in  wonder  and  in  doubt." 
The  blind  man,  father,  did  not  wait  or  speak, 
And  I  ran  by  in  haste  to  tell  of  them. 

YACOB. 

It  may  be,  son,  he  is  not  really  blind ; 

A  beggar's  fraud,  perhaps.     What  matters  it ! 

Go  quickly,  son,  and  fetch  the  bread  and  salt. 

[He  greets  the  two  men  as  they  draw  near.  The 
blind  man  touches  head,  heart,  and  lips,  as  he 
bends,  remaining  silent.  His  companion  touches 
his  forehead  and  bows.  The  host  returns  the 
Oriental  salutation  of  the  blind  man. 

YACOB. 

Take  of  my  bread  and  salt ;  my  tents  are  yours. 

[They  accept. 

The  peace  of  God  which  passeth  other  peace 
Be  with  you  ever. 

BARABBAS.  May  your  days  be  long, 

Long  in  the  land  that  once  was  ours  alone. 
[Meanwhile  AMPLIAS,   the  younger  man,  who   has 
been  uneasily  watchful,  murmurs  to  himself. 


236  BARABBAS 

AMELIAS. 

(Aloud}  Ah  !  Hebrews  both,  and  surely  to  be  trusted, 
May  the  great  God  of  Chance  be  good  to  you, 
And,  fortune-favored,  may  you  live  as  long 
As  you  are  happy  and  all  gods  are  kind  — 
Your  gods  and  mine.     What  better  can  I  wish? 

YACOB. 

Enter  and  share  with  us  our  evening  meal. 

(To   DAVID)    Fetch   me   cool   water   from   the  jar; 

their  feet 

May  well  be  heat-sore  from  the  desert  sands. 
(To  AMELIAS)    Our   people  hereabout  say   David's 

spring 
More  than  another  has  refreshing  power. 

AMELIAS  (At  ease}. 

I  passed  the  spring  at  sunset  days  ago, 

And  paused  to  watch  the  tall,  lithe  maidens  come 

With  balanced  water-jars  upon  their  heads 

And  hand  on  hip,  a  merry  company. 

More    black   than    midnight   was   their    wind-blown 

hair; 

I  lingered,  jealous  of  the  golden  light 
That  turned  to  bronze  its  darkness.     I  could  spin 
Gay  verses  on  them  to  make  envious 
The   fair-haired  beauties  of  Athenian  homes. 

{The  blind  man  sits  silent. 

YACOB  (Pleased  and  laughing}. 

Oft  have  I  watched  when  in  my  younger  days. 
Their  mothers  came  as  now  the  daughters  come ; 
I  used  to  hear  their  gladsome  chorus  swell, 


BARABBAS  237 

"  Give  us  such  lovers  as  came  to  the  well, 
Benaiah,  Abishai,  and  Asahel." 

AMELIAS. 

I  caught  gay  fragments  of  some  broken  song, 
My  servants  said  was  of  the  man  you  name, 
This  David,  once  a  poet  and  a  king. 

YACOB. 

Enter  my  tent.     When  you  have  cooled  your  feet, 
Eaten  and  rested,  you  may  hear  the  tale 
Told  as  a  brave  man  told  it  of  himself. 

BARABBAS. 

An  ancient  story  of  the  poet-king 
When  we  were  not  the  cringing  slaves  of  Rome. 
[They  lie  at   rest   on   the   tent   rugs  while  the  lad 
bathes  their  feet  and  their  hunger  is  satisfied. 

AMPLIAS. 

My  thanks,  good  lad.     What  is  it  you  are  called? 

DAVID. 

David. 

AMPLIAS. 

Indeed,  a  namesake  of  the  king ! 

[He  lies  at  ease,  with  hands  clasped  behind  his  head. 
(To  YACOB)  You  should  know  more  of  us  —  of  me, 

at  least. 
Hunger  and  thirst  are  foes  to  courtesy ! 

YACOB. 

We  ask  no  name  but  guest  of  those  to  whom 
We  gladly  give  what  God  to  us  has  given, 
Who  are  His  guests. 


238  BARABBAS 

AMPLIAS.  A  gracious  comment,  yet 

I  claim  the  pleasant  liberty  to  learn 
Who  is  this  gentle  almoner  of  the  gods. 

YACOB. 

My  name  is  Yacob,  and  the  lad,  my  son. 
We,  as  you  see,  are  merely  shepherd  folk, 
Well  pleased  when  some  one  from  the  busy  world 
Brings  news  a  six-months  old,  or  haply  takes 
A  sheep  or  two  for  taxes,  and  we  hear 
Which  Csesar  rules. 

AMPLIAS.  Your  name  will  live  with  me. 

A  welcome  guest  of  oft-reminding  hours. 
My  name  is  Amplias,  a  Greek  by  birth, 
Rich  when  at  home,  but  now  a  stranded  man 
With  what  of  life  disastrous  fortune  left 
When  robber  Arabs  fell  on  me  and  took 
My  slaves,  my  beasts,  and  left  me  little  else. 
This  blind  man's  kindness  led  me  safely  here. 
What  instinct  guides  me?     When  I  questioned  him, 
Grateful  and  curious,  he  made  brief  replies 
And  said  no  needless  word  from  morn  to  eve, 
When  talk  or  jest  had  eased  a  weary  way. 

YACOB  (Laughing).  Talk  if  you  will.    We  are  not  quite 

unlearned, 

And  talk  with  one  who  knows  the  outer  world 
Is  always  welcome  to  a  lonely  man. 

AMPLIAS. 

I  have  seen  men  and  cities,  wrangled  too 
With  mad  philosophers  or  played  with  verse, 
And  won  with  wit  the  rose-crown  of  the  feast ; 


BARABBAS  239 

Have  wandered  far,  and  now  that  I  am  fed 
Am  what  I  was  not  these  three  talk-starved  days. 
I  doubt  if  empty  nightingales  could  sing! 
First  for  the  song,  and  then,  perhaps,  the  friend 
Who  led  me  hither  will  confess  the  charm 
Shared  with  the  swallow  on  his  airy  flight. 
[Barabbas   has   meanwhile    been   a   silent   listener. 

The  lad  sitting  near  him  feels  now  the  touch  of 

the  blind  man  as  he  speaks. 

BARABBAS. 

You  have  lived  half  your  life  the  weathercock 
Of  every  wind  that  blows  —  of  every  breeze. 

AMPLIAS. 

Now  there,  at  last,  our  friend  has  something  said, 

A  weathercock's  a  rather  useful  thing  — 

A  tireless  sentinel,  and  much  in  use 

To  point  sage  morals  for  the  young,  when  age 

Has  set  sad  limits  to  men's  naughtiness 

And  left  one  luxury,  the  power  to  scold. 

YACOB  (Pleasantly). 

A  restless  symbol  of  the  joy  of  change 

You  Greeks  so  dearly  love.     Now  then,  blind  friend, 

Your  answer  to  our  merry  weathercock. 

BARABBAS  (To  YACOB). 

He  shall  be  answered  when  my  hour  has  come. 
I  am  called  Barabbas ; —  once  you  knew  me  well. 

YACOB  (Smiles). 

The  storms  of  life,  I  fear,  have  wrecked  for  me 
Too  many  memories  of  younger  days, 
And  after  all  the  name  is  not  the  man. 


240  BARABBAS 

BARABBAS. 

You  were  the  Rabbi  Yacob.     Once  we  met  — 
Not  since  that  day  have  I  seen  face  of  man. 

AMPLIAS. 

That  seems  to  hint  a  story.     May  I  ask  — 

BARABBAS. 

Ask  —  you  may  ask  in  vain ;  what  matters  it ! 

AMPLIAS. 

I  pray  you,  pardon  me;  but  really  now 

The  talk  goes  back  to  something  worth  one's  while, 

Grows  eloquent  of  opportunity, 

And  we  may  talk  until  the  cool  of  night 

Leaves  silver  moons  upon  the  dewy  grass. 

That 's  worth  remembrance  for  a  fertile  hour. 

[Writes  on  his  tablets. 

YACOB. 

Thanks  for  a  pleasant  thought.     Sing  now,  my  son, 
And  keep  some  memory  of  those  silver  moons 
We  used  to  call  the  Arab  spider-tents. 
Forget  us  all,  and  be  the  poet-king. 

[The  boy  rises  proudly  and  chants. 

DAVID. 

This  is  a  psalm  of  remembrance, 
A  song  to  be  sung 
Of  three  friends  who  loved  me 
When  I  was  still  young. 
Dry-lipped  from  the  desert 
I  slumbered,  accurst 


BARABBAS  241 


With  dreams  of  far  waters 

That  mocked  at  my  thirst. 

I  stood,  a  boy  shepherd, 

Where  guarding  the  brink 

The  maidens  asked  coyly 

A  song  for  a  drink ; 

Or  naked  and  heated 

I  lay  where  below 

The  sun-gift  from  Lebanon 

Crumbled  to  snow, 

Till  gaily,  dream-happy, 

I  raced  through  the  shade 

Where  far-braided  silver 

Of  rivulets  strayed. 

What  joy  for  the  kiss  of 

The  virginal  pool, 

Whose  chaste  water  clasped  me 

Delicious  and  cool, 

Where  the  white  lilies  rocked 

In  the  sun-cradled  light. 

When  waking,  and  thirsting, 

I  moaned  in  the  night, 

And  cried,  with  lost  manhood, 

"  Who  is  there  will  bring 

Where  Philistines  guard  it, 

A  draft  from  the  spring?" 

At  morning  I  saw  them  — 

Men  bleeding,  and  dumb, 

Till  Asahel  murmured, 

"  My  lord,  we  are  come. 

We  smote  in  the  mid-watch 

The  Philistine  band; 

We  smote  till  the  sword  hilt 


242  BARABBAS 

Was  locked  to  the  hand. 
The  vultures  are  stooping 
To  find  at  the  spring 
The  dead  who  once  guarded 
The  water  we  bring  — 
The  water  you  asked  for." 
They  gave  to  my  fear 
The  skin  bag  men  carry 
When  battle  is  near. 
Ah,  me,  the  mad  longing ! 
"  Far  be  it,  oh  Lord !  " 
On  the  sand  of  the  desert 
The  water  I  poured : 
"  To  the  God  of  our  fathers 
I  give  what  you  gave; 
I  drink  not,  my  brothers, 
The  blood  of  the  brave !  " 

AMPLIAS. 

That  voice  in  Rome,  my  lad,  would  bring  you  gold. 

BARABBAS. 

Does  it  bring  nothing  but  a  thought  of  gold? 

AMPLIAS  (Gaily). 

Nothing?     Indeed!     It  opens  golden  mines 
Of  thought,  conjecture,  questions  numberless. 
The  water  wasted  on  the  desert  sand 
Was  such  libation  as  at  feasts  we  pour 
To  Bacchus,  master  of  the  festal  hour. 

BARRABAS. 

He  gave  from  need,  and  you  of  base  excess. 


BARABBAS  243 

AMPLIAS  (Pleasantly). 

No  single  motive  ever  rules  a  man. 
The  custom  may  be  old,  and  vanity 
Has  many  forms,  as  thus  — 

DAVID  (Aside  to  YACOB).  I  hate  the  man. 

AMPLIAS. 

What  says  the  lad? 

YACOB.  Now  answer  him,  my  son, 

Say  what  you  will.     Speak  out  your  honest  thought. 

DAVID. 

I  'm  very  sorry  that  I  sang  for  you ; 

You  would  have  drunk  the  water.     You,  our  guest, 

Insult  the  memory  of  our  hero-king. 

tJ 

AMPLIAS. 

No  man  can  say  what  such  an  hour  may  bring; 
Decisions  vary  with  the  weather's  change. 

BARABBAS. 

Bird-witted  ever,  these  light-minded   Greeks ! 

AMPLIAS. 

Another  hour  of  thirst  might  —  I  suppose 

Those  men  drank  deeply  at  the  conquered  spring? 

DAVID  (Angrily). 

They  did  not  drink. 

AMPLIAS.  And  wherefore  not,  my  lad? 


244  BARABBAS 

DAVID. 

I  do  not  know;  they  went  and  came  athirst. 

YACOB. 

The  lad  would  say  that  had  he  been  of  them 
To  kill  and  quench  his  thirst  had  lost  their  gift 
The  nobleness  of  sacrificial  honor. 

DAVID. 

I  should  have  done  as  they  did,  now  I  know. 
[For  a  time  no  one  speaks.     YACOB  rises  and  throws 
wide    the    tent-flaps.     AMPLIAS    also    rises,    takes 
water  from  the  water- jar,  and  leaning  against  the 
tent-pole  speaks. 

AMPLIAS. 

When  one  goes  wandering  in  that  lesser  world  — 
Why  not  the  greater  —  which  men  call  the  mind, 
He  has  adventures,  like  all  travelers. — 

BARABBAS   (Abruptly).     What  find  you  now  to  mock  a 
noble  deed? 

AMPLIAS. 

While  I  flew  carelessly  the  kites  of  thought, 
A  naughty  thief  of  manners  stole  away 
The  gentlehood  of  courtesy.     It  was 
A  noble  deed,  my  lad,  and  fitting  well 
The  honor  of  a  poet  and  a  man. 

YACOB. 

Take  you  our  thanks.     I,  too,  was  wandering, 
What  is  this  gift,  which  lacking,  man  is  dead? 


BARABBAS  245 

BARABBAS. 

One  of  our  rabbis  said,  "  The  wine  of  God." 

AMPLIAS. 

That's     worth     remembrance;    just    the     thought- 
winged  phrase 
A  poet  finds  in  some  unequaled  hour. 

[Uses  his  tablets. 

YACOB. 

Of  all  the  gifts  of  God  most  wonderful, 
Ocean  or  dewdrop,  terrible  or  sweet. 

AMPLIAS  (Gently,  after  a  pause). 

Again  a  thought,  for  but  a  moment  lost. 
If  your  one  God  has  power  infinite, 
It  follows  surely  that  He  may  at  will 
Give  to  Himself  infinity  of  joy, 
And  in  some  isolated  wonderment 
Supremacy  of  happiness  acquire, 
The  artist  gladness  in  created  things. 

YACOB. 

He  saw,  and  said  the  world  He  made  was  good. 

AMELIAS. 

I  could  suggest  exceptions. 

YACOB.  There  are  none. 

For  one  who  sees  things  with  the  eyes  of  Christ. 

BARABBAS. 

The  eyes  of  Christ ! —  Ah,  me,  the  eyes  of  Christ ! 
[AMPLIAS  regarding  him  is  silent  a  moment,  and  then 
says  to  Yacob: 


246  BARABBAS 

AMPLIAS. 

That  which  your  God  called  good  I  do  not  know. 
A  rose  is  beautiful,  but  is  it  good? 
What  has  your  Christ  to  do  with  it?     For  me 
The  world  is  but  a  very  little  place 
Through  which  one  carries  this  thing  called  him 
self. 

One  travels  to  escape  monotony, 
Or  memories,  or  such  absurd  demands 
On  purse  or  heart  as  vex  a  man,  and  sow 
With  sleepy  poppies  every  garden  space 
Where  bloom  the  flowers  of  joy  and  idleness. 
I  am  to  love  my  neighbor  as  myself  — 
Or  so  my  mother  taught  me.     She,  I  saw, 
Is  trapped  by  this  philosophy  of  Christ. 
My  neighbor!     Well,  but  what  becomes  of  me? 

YACOB. 

I  trust,  you  listened. 

AMPLIAS.  No,  in  came  a  girl, 

And  then  we  fled.     But  now  I  find  again 
In  one  strange  phrase  my  sightless  friend  let  fall 
This  Christ,  of  whom  in  Csesar's  palaces 
Noble  and  knight  in  cautious  whispers  speak; 
Gentile  and  Jew  bend  down  in  prayer  to  him, 
Inheritors  of  some  new  hopefulness. 

YACOB. 

And  you  that  love  the  old  and  mock  the  new, 
Would  you  know  more  of  Him  who  died  for  man? 

AMPLIAS. 

I  said  the  world  was  small.     Once  long  ago 


BARABBAS  247 

When  feasting  gaily  by  the  ^gean  sea, 

And  we  were  glad  with  music,  love,  and  wine, 

One  sober  fool  cast  mid  our  idle  talk 

Words  of  this  new  revolt  against  the  gods. 

A  Roman  gentleman,  a  man  in  years, 

Who  sought  the  charm  Falernian  vineyards  bring 

To  make  the  minute  young,  said  quietly, 

"  I  have  some  dim  remembrance  of  the  man. 

An  arrogant,  rebellious  priesthood  asked, 

As  was  the  custom  at  their  annual  feast, 

That  I  set  free  one  criminal.     They  chose 

A  leader  of  revolt,  and  so  to  please 

Unruly  Jews  I  sent  this  Christ  to  death. 

To-day  men  talk  of  this  Judean  serf; 

I  had  quite  forgotten  it;  but  now,  of  late, 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  — 'twas  but  a  chance, 

The  other  man  had  been  the  crucified. — 

Ho  there,  my  girl,  you  of  the  golden  hair ! 

Fill,  fill  my  goblet." 

There  was  Christ  again ! 
A  sudden  silence  fell  upon  the  feast, 
Till  one  beside  me  said,  "  That  other  man 
Had  on  his  side  the  cheerful  God  of  Luck." 

BARABBAS  (Rising) 

I  was  that  other  man. 

YACOB.  What,  you  !     Not  you  ! 

AMELIAS. 

So  cross  men's  fates.     I  said  the  world  was  small ! 

YACOB  (To  BARABBAS).  You  were  the  hero  of  the  priest- 
led  mob ! 


BARABBAS 

We  both  are  old.     I,  too,  am  one  of  those 
Who  saw  that  day  of  wonder  and  of  fear. 

AMPLIAS. 

I  would  hear  more. 

YACOB.  Ask  of  Barabbas  then. 

BARABBAS. 

And  if  my  heart  I  open  wide  to  him, 

Will  he  but  use  for  subtleties  of  talk 

The  strangest  hour  the  world  has  ever  known? 

AMPLIAS. 

I  shall  but  use  it  as  my  reason  bids. 

BARABBAS. 

I  do  not  know.     You  took  the  gift  of  life 
As  takes  a  child  some  new  and  fragile  toy, 
And  had  no  word  of  thankfulness  to  God. 

AMPLIAS. 

You  had  my  thanks.     What  other  god  save  Chance 
Had  I  to  thank  for  that  large  gift  of  life? 
There  is  no  God.     The  gods  of  Greece  are  dead; 
The  joy,  the  beauty  and  the  grace  of  life 
Are  gone  with  them.     What  now  is  left  to  me? 
Once  as  a  boy  I  walked  alert  to  see 
Some  prick-eared  fawn  go  gaily  prancing  by, 
Or  sure  I  heard  Diana's  crescent  bow 
Release  wild  music  from  the  parting  string, 
Whence  silver  arrows  hurtled  through  the  wood, 
Where    tramped    with    laughter    all    her    buskined 
maids. 


BARABBAS  249 

And  white-limbed  Venus,  mistress  of  delight ! 
Ah,  there  's  a  goddess  will  outlive  all  gods ! 
I  found  her  smiling  through  a  dozen  girls. 

BARABBAS. 

Fantastic  mockeries  of  love  or  power, 
The  puppet  fancies  of  men's  poet-dreams. 

AMELIAS. 

If  the  gods  gave  us  poets,  or  they,  gods, 
Poet  and  god  immortal  dreamers  were, 
And  from  the  faded  pages  of  old  books 
In  days  unborn  the  ghosts  of  gods  will  rise 
To  preach  a  creed  of  beauty,  love,  and  joy, 
And  be  the  comrades  of  a  poet's  hour. 
One  God !  you  say.     No  sooner  is  there  one 
Than  our  poor  pagan  nature  finds  a  need 
To  personate  anew  His  attributes, 
Or  so  I  gather  from  my  mother's  talk. 

YACOB. 

The  night  is  with  us.     I  would  have  my  say 
In  sober  morning  hours  before  you  leave. 

AMELIAS. 

I  find  the  midnight  hour  a  wiser  friend. 
I  mock  at  no  man's  creed,  and  least  of  all 
At  what  beliefs  my  gentle  mother  holds. 
But  since  are  gone  my  beautiful  dear  gods, 
I  've  lost  the  chastity  of  virgin  faith ; 
Religion  must  be  beautiful  for  me 
My  mother's  faith  is  sorrowful  and  sad 
And  has  no  wings  of  joy.     What  else  is  left? 


250  BARABBAS 

YACOB. 

Ah,  me,  alas !     When  I  was  young  as  you, 

Question  and  answer,  all  the  strife  of  tongues, 

Were  more  to  me  than  honest  search  for  truth. 

It  may  be  so  with  you,  I  judge  you  not; 

But  take  with  you  to  that  strange  world  of  sleep 

From  which  we  bring  so  very  little  back, 

An  old  man's  words  of  Him  you  seem  to  meet 

Or  here  or  there  wherever  you  may  stray. 

In  yonder  little  town  upon  the  hill 

Long  years  ago  a  child  of  God  was  born. 

He  taught,  as  none  have  taught,  the  creed  of  love 

He  had  but  little  life.     In  those  few  years 

He  wrought  strange  wonders,  healed  men's  mortal 

ills, 

To  win  the  crude  belief  of  simple  souls; 
Bade  others  follow  him  for  what  he  was 
And  what  his  wisdom  taught  to  win  to  him 
The  more  reluctant  mind  of  thoughtful  men. 
He  put  aside  the  Hebrew's  dream  of  power 
And,  a  mute  king  of  truth,  accepted  death; 
But  ask  Barabbas  now  how  this  man  died. 

BARABBAS. 

I  keep  no  count  how  many  years  have  gone 

Since  I  have  told  to  any  man  this  tale; 

Though  I  am  old,  I  do  not  seem  to  age 

More  than  the  sea  that  is  forever  young. 

When,  as  Pilatus  told,  he  set  me  free 

To  calm  the  priesthood,  they  were  doubly  pleased, 

For  I  had  led  a  weak  and  vain  revolt 

Which  broke  against  the  Roman's  rock  of  power ; 

And  thus  my  freedom  doomed  the  silent  man 


BARABBAS  25r 

To  what  I  looked  for,  scourge  and  crucifix. 

Set  free !     I  shudder  that  it  seemed  so  sweet. 

Like  to  one  drowning  who  sets  foot  on  land, 

I  drew  long  breaths  of  open  air  and  glad 

Basked  in  the  sun  unseen  for  many  a  month, 

I  was  the  hero  of  an  hour,  and  shared 

The  priesthood's  hatred  and  their  scorn  of  Him 

Whose  silence  was  the  ransom  of  my  life. 

I  followed  them  with  thoughts  at  last  set  free 

From  night-long  dreams  of  anguish  on  the  cross 

Till  clanking  fetters  woke  me  to  despair. 

The  man  I  watched  upon  his  way  to  death 

Bent  stumbling  'neath  his  cross ;  and  then  and  there 

Some  pity  for  this  strange,  insulting  death 

Held  me  to  thought  of  what  I  might  have  been 

Had  he  but  made  one  eloquent  appeal. 

Why  was  he  silent?     He  deserved  to  die. 

False  to  our  fathers'  creed,  he  had  the  power 

To  lead  a  host  to  freedom,  and  for  God 

To  call  to  battle  all  those  crouching  slaves, 

Sweep  clean  the  land  from  Moab  to  the  sea 

And  hurl  the  Roman  from  his  seat  of  pride ! 

A  king  of  men  !     In  some  uplifting  hour 

The  prophet  hand  that  gave  the  Maccabee 

Victorious  visions  and  a  sword  of  gold 

Had  won  this  wasted  life  to  strike  and  slay. 

[BARABBAS,  who  had  been  standing,  sinks  down  ex 
hausted,  and  all  are  silent  until  AMPLIAS  speaks. 

AMPLIAS. 

You  cannot  leave  me  with  this  half-told  tale. 
How  died  this  man  of  whom  while  yet  he  lived 


252  BARABBAS 

Only  Judea  knew, —  but  now,  though  dead, 
Lives  like  the  risen  sun  with  growing  power? 

YACOB. 

I  too  would  hear  —  I  did  not  stay  to  see 
The  fading  sunset  of  a  noble  life. 

BARABBAS. 

It  is  not  easily  told  — 

AMPLIAS.  Nor  lightly  heard. 

[BARABBAS  rises  again  feebly  and  leaning  against  the 
tent-pole  is  silent,  and  at  last  speaks. 

BARABBAS. 

The  mocking  rabble  slowly  moved  away, 

While  I  in  silence  lingered,  wondering 

What  secret  held  this  suicidal  death. 

So  rich  a  life  with  such  calm  courage  spent, 

While  I  who  for  my  nation  boldly  dared 

Had    feared    for    months    the    scourging    and    the 

cross. 

That  I  might  be  where  now  this  brave  man  hung 
Thrilled  me  at  last  with  strange  companionship 
In  His  long  torture's  awful  loneliness. 
The  guard  lay  idly  round  a  waning  fire, 
The  stern  centurion  stood  indifferent; 
Only  the  sob  of  women  far  away 
Came  and  was  lost.     A  soldier  stirred  the  fire. 
Some  power  of  capture  in  the  pleading  eyes 
Drew  me  yet  nearer  till  all  will  was  lost ; 
When  that  long  wail  of  agonized  appeal 


BARABBAS  253 

Broke  on  the  friendless  silence  of  the  night, 

My  eyes  were  His  to  hold  —  His  eyes  were  mine. 

The  blood-stained  cross  shook   with   the  throes  of 

death ; 

The  black  hair  heavy  with  the  sweat  of  death, 
Dropped  o'er  the  fallen  head,  while  suddenly 
The  earth  rocked  under  me.     I  heard  afar 
The  screams  of  women  and  the  cries  of  men, 
Uprooted  trees,  the  crash  of  wall  and  tower; 
And  through  it  ever  those  beseeching  eyes 
I  saw  and  fell,  and  reeling  rose  again 
Blind,  blind  forever,  as  my  soul  had  been, 
With  one  last  memory  of  those  seeking  eyes. 

AMELIAS   (Gravely). 

As  strange  a  story  as  was  ever  told ! 
Why  you  it  plainly  cost  so  much  to  tell 
Chose  for  the  hearing  one  you  pleased  to  call 
A  mere  light-minded  trifler,  you  may  know; 
At  least  you  have  the  gratitude  of  thanks 
From  one  too  apt  to  hide  his  graver  thought 
Beneath  a  mask,  but  now  would  ask  of  you 
What  sequel  has  the  tale  no  man  could  hear 
Without  distress  for  that  man  and  for  you. 

BARABBAS. 

No,  it  is  not  the  end.     For  many  a  year 
Through  perils  numberless  my  steps  have  gone, 
The  alms  of  death  denied  my  beggared  life. 
From  land  to  land  a  gentle  child-like  hand, 
Or  some  low  voice  of  warning  guided  me. 
This,  this  at  least,  whatever  else  you  doubt, 
You  cannot  dare  to  question.     Everywhere 


254  BARABBAS 

This  tender  touch  has  led  me  unto  men 
Who  are  the  servants  of  this  Christ  who  died. 
That  hand,  unfelt,  still  leads  you  near  to  Him. 
My  tale  is  told,  and  I  must  wander  on. 

YACOB. 

Why  not  abide  with  us? 

BARABBAS.  No,  I  must  go. 

When  that  still  guiding  hand  is  lost  to  me, 
Then  I  shall  know  that  I  have  led  to  Christ 
A  soul  that  brings  me  to  my  journey's  end; 
Ah !  then  perhaps  those  eyes  of  agony 
Will  smile  on  me.     I  have  so  often  tried, 
And  tried  in  vain. 

AMPLIAS.  Take  then  to  sleep  my  thanks 

For  something  more  than  merely  food  and  life. 

BARABBAS. 

The  peace  of  God  be  with  you  all  to-night. 

YACOB  (To  BARABBAS). 

David,  my  son,  will  share  with  you  his  tent. 

(To  AMPLIAS)  You  will  rest  here  with  me,  I  trust, 

so  long 
As  you  find  pleasure  in  our  peaceful  life. 

[The  lad  returns  in  haste 

DAVID. 

Barabbas  asks  for  water  — 

[The  boy  hesitates. 


BARABBAS  255 

YACOB.  Now,  my  son, 

Why  are  you  waiting?     Take  with  you  what  else 
Our  guest  may  need  for  comfort  and  for  rest. 

DAVID. 

The  man  who  came  this  evening  to  our  tents, 

As  comes  my  dog  to  find  me  at  the  fold, 

And  for  two  days  led  here  the  man  who  sees  — 

[Pauses. 

AMPLIAS. 

What  else,  my  lad? 

DAVID  (Hesitating)  He  did  not  seem  to  know 

Which  way  to  go ;  I  led  him  like  a  child. 
He  only  said,  "  Thank  God,  the  eyes  are  gone ! 
The    eyes    are    gone ! "     The    man     seemed    very 
strange. 

YACOB. 

And  was  not  troubled? 

DAVID.  No,   he  bade  me  say 

The  hand  had  left  him,  and  the  voice  was  still ! 

[YACOB  stands  in  thought. 
YACOB. 

Perchance  to-morrow  he  may  be  again 

The  man  he  was  this  morning.     Go,  my  son. 

[DAVID  leaves  him. 

MORNING  AT  DAWN. 
AMELIAS. 

Yes,  I  slept  soundly,  but  those  eyes  he  saw 
Haunted  my  dreams.     I  go  away  to-day. 


256  BARABBAS 

Now  if  your  son  will  set  me  on  the  road, 
Jerusalem  will  find  me  needed  gold, 
Friends  of  my  people,  and  some  days  of  rest. 
I  go  just  now  to  say  my  latest  thanks 
To  this  strange  messenger  with  words  as  strange. 
[He  leaves,  and  returns  in  haste  much  disturbed. 

AMPLIAS. 

Your  son  is  sleeping  and  I  did  not  wake  him. 

The  man  is  dead. 
YACOB.  Dead !     Are  you  sure,  my  friend  ? 

AMPLIAS. 

Yes,  he  is  dead.     I  have  seen  many  die, 

But  never  one  who  like  this  stranger  seemed 

To  smile  upon  me  through  the  face  of  death. 

YACOB. 

Then  he  is  happy.     He  has  found  perhaps 
The  man  his  life  has  sought. 

AMPLIAS.  Perhaps,  perhaps ! 

BAR  HAPBOR,  August  1913. 

NOTE. —  This  poem  was  first  published,  posthumously,  in  April    1914. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


THE  MOTHER 

"  I  will  incline  mine  ear  to  the  parable,  and  show  my  dark 
speech  upon  the  harp." 

CHRISTMAS  !    Christmas !    merry    Christmas !    rang    the 

bells.     O  God  of  grace ! 
In  the  stillness  of  the  death-room  motionless  I  kept  my 

place, 
While  beneath  my  eyes  a  wanness  came  upon  the  little 

face, 
And  an  empty  smile  that  stung  me,  as  the  pallor  grew 

apace. 
Then,  as  if  from  some  far  distance,  spake  a  voice:  "  The 

child  is  dead." 
"Dead?"    I    cried.     "Is    God   not    good?     What   thing 

accursed  is  that  you  said?  " 
Swift  I  searched  their  eyes  of  pity,  swaying,  bowed,  and 

all  my  soul, 

Shrunken  as  a  hand  had  crushed  it,  crumpled  like  a  use 
less  scroll 
Read  and  done  with,  passed  from  sorrows :  only  with  me 

lingered  yet 
Some  dim  sense  of  easeful  comfort  in  the  glad  leave  to 

forget. 

259 


260  THE    MOTHER 

But  again  life's  scattered  fragments,  memories  of  joy 

and  woe, 
Tremulously  came  to  oneness,  as  a  storm-torn  lake  may 

grow 
Quiet,  winning  back  its  pictures,  when  the  wild  winds 

cease  to  blow. 
As  if  called  for  God's  great  audit  came  a  vision  of  my 

years, 
Broken  gleams  of  youth  and  girlhood,  all  the  woman's 

love  and  tears. 

Marvelling,  myself  I  saw  as  one  another  sees,  and  smiled, 
Crooning  o'er  my   baby   dolls, —  part  a  mother,   part  a 

child; 
Then,  half  sorry,  ceased  to  wonder  why  I  left  my  silent 

brood, 
Till  the  lessoning  years  went  by  me,  and  the  instinct, 

love-renewed, 
Stirred  again  life's  stronger  fibre,  and  were  mine  twain 

living  things; 
Bone  of  my  bone !  flesh  of  my  flesh !     Who  on  earth  a 

title  brings 
Flawless  as  this  mother-title,  free  from  aught  of  mortal 

stain, 
Innocent  and  pure  possession,  double-born  of  joy  and 

pain? 
Oh,  what  wonder  these  could  help  me,  set  me  laughing, 

though  I  sobbed 
As  they  drew  my  very  heart  out,  and  the  laden  breasts 

were  robbed ! 
Tender  buds  of  changeful  pleasure  came  as  come  the 

buds  of  May, 
Trivial,  wondrous,  unexpected,  blossoming  from  day  to 

day. 


THE    MOTHER  261 

Ah !  the  clutch  of  tendril-fingers,  that  with  nature's  cun 
ning  knew 
So  to  coil  in  sturdy  grapple  round  the  stem  from  which 

they  grew. 
Shall  a  man  this  joy  discover?     How  the  heart-wine  to 

the  brain 
Rushed  with  shock  of  bliss  when,  startled,  first  I  won 

this  simple  gain  ! 
How   I   mocked  those   seeking  fingers,   eager   for  their 

earliest  toy, 
Telling   none    my    new-found    treasure !     Miser   of   the 

mother's  joy, 
Quick  I  caught  the  first  faint  ripple,  answering  me  with 

lip  and  eyes, 
As   I   stooped   with   mirthful   purpose,   keen   to   capture 

fresh  replies; 

Oh,  the  pretty  wonder  of  it,  when  was  born  the  art  to  smile, 
Or  the  new,  gay  trick  of  laughter  filled  my  eyes  with 

tears  the  while, — 
Helpful   tears,   love's   final  language,   when   the  lips  no 

more  can  say, 
Tears,  like  kindly  prophets,  warning  of  another,  darker 

day. 
Thus  my  vision  lost  its  gladness,  and  I  stood  on  life's  dim 

strand, 
Watching  where  a  little  love-lark  drifted  slowly  from  the 

land; 
For  again  the  bells  seemed  ringing  Christmas  o'er  the 

snow  of  dawn, 
And  my  dreaming  memory  hurt  me  with  a  hot  face,  gray 

and  drawn, 
And  with   small   hands   locked   in   anguish.     Ah !   those 

days  of  helpless  pain  ! 


262  THE    MOTHER 

Mine    the    mother's    wrathful    sorrow.     Ah !    my    child, 

hadst  thou  been  Cain, 
Father  of  the  primal  murder,  black  with  every  hideous 

thought, 
Cruel   were   the    retribution ;    for,    alas !    what   good   is 

wrought 
When  the  very  torture   ruins   all  the   fine  machine  of 

thought  ? 
So,  with  reeling  brain  I  questioned,  while  the  fevered 

cheek  grew  white, 
And  at   last   I   seemed  to   pass   with   him,   released,   to 

death's  dark  night. 
Seraph  voices  whispered  round  me.     "  God,"  they  said, 

"  hath  set  our  task, — 
Thou  to  question,  we  to  answer:  fear  not;  ask  what  thou 

wouldst  ask." 
Wildly  beat  my  heart.     Thought  only,  regnant,  held  its 

sober  pace, 
Whilst,  a  winged  mind,  I  wandered  in  the  bleak  domain 

of  space. 
Then  I  sought  and  seeing  marvelled  at  the  mystery  of 

time, 

Where  beneath  me  rolled  the  earth-star  in  its  first  cha 
otic  slime, 
As  bewildering  ages  passing  with  their  cyclic  changes 

came, 

Heaving  land  and  'whelming  waters,  ice  and  fierce  vol 
canic  flame, 
Sway  and  shock  of  tireless  atoms,  pulsing  with  the  throb 

of  force, 
Whilst  the  planet,  rent  and  shaken,  fled  upon  its  mighty 

course. 


THE    MOTHER  263 

Last,  with  calm  of  wonder  hushed,  I  saw  amid  the  surg 
ing  strife 
Rise  the  first  faint  stir  of  being  and  the  tardy  morn  of 

life- 
Life  in   countless   generations.     Speechless,   mercilessly 

dumb, 
Swept  by  ravage  of  disaster,  tribe  on  tribe  in   silence 

come, 
Till  the  yearning  sense  found  voices,  and  on  hill,  and 

shore,  and  plain, 
Dreary   from   the  battling  myriads   rose   the  birthright 

wail  of  pain. 
God  of  pity !  Son  of  sorrows  !  Wherefore  should  a  power 

unseen 
Launch  on  years  of  needless  anguish  this  great  agonized 

machine  ? 
Was  Himself  who  willed  this  torment  but  a  slave  to  law 

self-made? 

Or  had  some  mad  angel-demon  here,  unchecked  and  un 
dismayed, 
Leave  to  make  of  earth  a  Job;  until  the  cruel  game  was 

played 
Free  to  whirl  the  spinning  earth-toy  where  his  despot 

forces  wrought, 
While  he  watched  each  sense  grow  keener  as  the  lifted 

creature  bought 
With   the   love-gift   added   sorrow,   and   there   came   to 

man's  estate 

Will,  the  helpless;  thought,  the  bootless;  all  the  death- 
ward  war  with  fate? 
Had  this  lord  of  trampled  millions  joy  or  grief,  when  first 

the  mind. 


264  THE    MOTHER 

Awful  prize  of  contests  endless,  rose  its  giant  foes  to 

bind; 
When  his  puppet  tamed  the  forces  that  had  helped  its 

birth  to  breed, 
And  with  growth  of  wisdom  master,  trained  them  to  its 

growing  need; 
Last,  upon  the  monster  turning,  on  the  serpent  form  of 

Pain, 

Cried, ."  Bring  forth  no  more  in  anguish;"  with  the  ar 
rows  of  the  brain 
Smote  this  brute  thing  that  no  use  had  save  to  teach  him 

to  refrain 
When   earth's   baser   instincts   tempted,    and   the   better 

thought  was  vain? 
Then  my  soul  one  harshly  answered,  "  Thou  hast  seen 

the  whole  of  earth, 
All  its  boundless  years  of  misery,  yea,  its  gladness  and 

its  mirth, 
Yet  thou  hast  a  life  created!     Hadst  thou  not  a  choice? 

Why  cast 

Purity  to  life's  mad  chances,  where  defeat  is  sure  at  last  ?  " 
Low  I  moaned,  "  My  tortured  baby !  "  and  a  gentler  voice 

replied, 
"  One   alone   thy  soul   can   answer, —  this,   this   only,   is 

denied. 
Yet  take  counsel  of  thy  sadness.     Should  God  give  thy 

will  a  star 
Freighted  with  eternal  pleasure,   free   from  agony  and 

war, 
Wouldst   thou   wish   it?     Think!     Time  is   not   for  the 

souls  who  roam  in  space. 
Speak !     Thy  will  shall  have  its  way.     Be  mother  of  one 

joyous  race. 


THE    MOTHER  265 

Choose !     Yon  time-worn  world  beneath  thee  thou  shalt 

people  free  from  guilt. 
There  nor  pain  nor  death  shall  ruin,  never  there  shall 

blood  be  spilt." 
Then    I    trembled,    hesitating,    for    I    saw    its    beauty 

born, 
Saw  a  Christ-like  world  of  beings  where  no  beast  by 

beast  was  torn, 
Where   the   morrows  bred  no   sorrows,   and  the   gentle 

knew  not  scorn. 
"  Yet,"  I  said,  "  if  life  have  meaning,  and  man  must  be, 

what  shall  lift 
These  but  born  for  joy's  inaction,  these  wrho  crave  no 

added  gift? 
Let  the  world  you  bid  me  people  hurl  forever  through  the 

gloom, 
Tenantless,    a    blasted    record    of    some    huge    funereal 

doom, 
Sad  with  unremembered  slaughter,  but  a  cold  and  lonely 

tomb." 


Deep  and  deeper  grew  the  stillness,  and  I  knew  how  vain 

my  quest. 
Not    by    God's    supremest    angel    is    that    awful    secret 

guessed. 
Yet    with    dull    reiteration,    like    the    pendulum's    dead 

throb, 
Beat  my  heart;  a  moaning  infant,  all  my  body  seemed  to 

sob, 
And  a  voice  like  to  my  baby's  called  to  me  across  the 

night 
As  the  darkness  fell  asunder,  and  I  saw  a  wall  of  light 


266  THE    MOTHER 

Barred  with  crucificial  shadows,  whence  a  weary  wind 
did  blow 

Shuddering.  I  felt  it  pass  me  heavy  with  its  freight  of 
woe. 

Said  a  voice,  "Behold  God's  dearest;  also  these  no  an 
swer  know. 

These  be  they  who  paid  in  sorrow  for  the  right  to  bid 
thee  hear. 

Had  their  lives  in  ease  been  cradled,  had  they  never 
known  a  tear, 

Feebly  had  their  p'salms  of  warning  fallen  upon  the  lis 
tening  ear. 

God  the  sun  is  God  the  shadow;  and  where  pain  is,  God 
is  near. 

Take  again  thy  life  and  use  it  with  a  sweetened  sense 
of  fear; 

God  is  Father !  God  is  Mother !  Regent  of  a  growing 
soul, 

Free  art  thou  to  grant  mere  pleasure,  free  to  teach  it  un- 
control. 

Time  is  childhood !  larger  manhood  bides  beyond  life's 
sunset  hour, 

Where  far  other  foes  are  waiting ;  and  with  ever  gladder 
power, 

Still  the  lord  of  awful  choice,  O  striving  creature  of  the 
sod, 

Thou  shalt  learn  that  imperfection  is  the  noblest  gift  of 
God! 

For  they  mock  his  ample  purpose  who  but  dream,  beyond 
the  sky, 

Of  a  heaven  where  will  may  slumber,  and  the  trained  de 
cision  die 

In  the  competence  of  answer  found  in  death's  immense 
reply." 


OF   ONE   WHO    FELL   ON    THE   WAY        267 

Then  my   vision  passed,   and  weeping,   lo !   I   woke,   of 

death  bereft; 
At  my  breast  the  baby  brother,  yonder  there  the  dead  I 

left. 
For  my  heart  two  worlds  divided :  his,  my  lost  one's ;  his, 

who  pressed 
Closer,  waking  all  the  mother, -as  he  drew  the  aching 

breast, 
While  twain  spirits,  joy  and  sorrow,  hovered  o'er  my 

plundered  nest. 

NEWPORT,  October  1891. 


OF  DEATH  AND  OF  ONE  WHO  FELL 
ON  THE  WAY 

DEATH'S  but  one  more  to-morrow.     Thou  art  gray 
With  many  a  death  of  many  a  yesterday. 
O  yearning  heart  that  lacked  the  athlete's  force 
And,  stumbling,  fell  upon  the  beaten  course, 
And  looked,  and  saw  with  ever  glazing  eyes 
Some  lower  soul  that  seemed  to  win  the  prize ! 
Lo,  Death,  the  just,  who  comes  to  all  alike, 
Life's  sorry  scales  of  right  anew  shall  strike. 
Forth,  through  the  night,  on  unknown  shores  to  win 
The  peace  of  God  unstirred  by  sense  of  sin ! 
There  love  without  desire  shall,  like  a  mist 
At  evening  precious  to  the  drooping  flower, 
Possess  thy  soul  in  ownership,  and  kissed 
By  viewless  lips,  whose  touch  shall  be  a  dower 
Of  genius  and  of  winged  serenity, 


268       OF    ONE   WHO    FELL   ON    THE   WAY 

Thou  shalt  abide  in  realms  of  poesy, 

Where  soul  hath  touch  of  soul,  and  where  the  great 

Cast  wide  to  welcome  thee  joy's  golden  gate. 

Freeborn  to  untold  thoughts  that  age  on  age 

Caressed  sweet  singers  in  their  sacred  sleep, 

Thy  soul  shall  enter  on  its  heritage 

Of  God's  unuttered  wisdom.     Thou  shalt  sweep 

With  hand  assured  the  ringing  lyre  of  life, 

Till  the  fierce  anguish  of  its  bitter  strife, 

Its  pain,  death,  discord,  sorrow,  and  despair, 

Break  into  rhythmic  music.     Thou  shalt  share 

The  prophet- joy  that  kept  forever  glad 

God's  poet-souls  when  all  a  world  was  sad. 

Enter  and  live!     Thou  hast  not  lived  before; 

We  were  but  soul-cast  shadows.     Ah,  no  more 

The  heart  shall  bear  the  burdens  of  the  brain; 

Now  shall  the  strong  heart  think,  nor  think  in  vain. 

In  the  dear  company  of  peace,  and  those 

Who  bore  for  man  life's  utmost  agony, 

Thy  soul  shall  climb  to  cliffs  of  still  repose, 

And  see  before  thee  lie  Time's  mystery, 

And  that  which  is  God's  time,  Eternity; 

Whence  sweeping  over  thee  dim  myriad  things, 

The  awful  centuries  yet  to  be,  in  hosts 

That  stir  the  vast  of  heaven  with  formless  wings, 

Shall  cast  for  thee  their  shrouds,  and,  like  to  ghosts, 

Unriddle  all  the  past,  till,  awed  and  still, 

Thy  soul  the  secret  hath  of  good  and  ill. 


OF   THE    REMEMBERED  DEAD  269 


OF    THE    REMEMBERED    DEAD 

THERE  is  no  moment  when  our  dead  lose  power; 

Unsignalled,  unannounced  they  visit  us. 

Who  calleth  them  I  know  not.     Sorrowful, 

They  haunt  reproachfully  some  venal  hour 

In  days  of  joy,  or  when  the  world  is  near, 

And  for  a  moment  scourge  with  memories 

The  money-changers  of  the  temple-soul. 

In  the  dim  space  between  two  gulfs  of  sleep, 

Or  in  the  stillness  of  the  lonely  shore, 

They  rise  for  balm  or  torment,  sweet  or  sad, 

And  most  are  mine  where,  in  the  kindly  woods, 

Beside  the  childlike  joy  of  summer  streams, 

The  stately  sweetness  of  the  pine  hath  power 

To  call  their  kindred  comforting  anew. 

Use  well  thy  dead.     They  come  to  ask  of  thee 

What  thou  hast  done  with  all  this  buried  love, 

The  seed  of  purer  life?     Or  has  it  fallen  unused 

In  stony  ways  and  brought  thy  life  no  gain? 

Wilt  thou  with  gladness  in  another  world 

Say  it  has  grown  to  forms  of  duty  done 

And  ruled  thee  with  a  conscience  not  thine  own  ? 

Another  world!     How  shall  we  find  our  dead? 

What  forceful  law  shall  bring  us  face  to  face? 

Another  world  !     What  yearnings  there  shall  guide  ? 

Will  love  souls  twinned  of  love  bring  near  again? 

And  that  one  common  bond  of  duty  held 

This  living  and  that  dead,  when  life  was  theirs? 

Or  shall  some  stronger  soul,  in  life  revered, 

Bring  both  to  touch,  with  nature's  certainty. 


270  E.    D.    M. 

As  the  pure  crystal  atoms  of  its  kind 
Draws  into   fellowship  of  loveliness? 

1889. 

E.    D.    M. 

THERE  is  a  heart  I  knew  in  other  days, 

Not  ever  far  from  any  one  day's  thought; 

One  pure  as  are  the  purest.     All  the  years 

Of  battle  or  of  peace,  of  joy  or  grief, 

Take  him  no  further  from  me.     Oftentimes, 

When  the  sweet  tenderness  of  some  glad  girl 

Disturbs  with  tears,  full  suddenly  I  know 

It  is  because  one  memory  ever  dear 

Is  matched  a  moment  with  its  living  kin. 

Or  when  at  hearing  of  some  gallant  deed 

My  throat  fills,  and  I  may  not  dare  to  say 

The  quick  praise  in  me,  then  I  know,  alas ! 

'T  is  by  this  dear  dead  nobleness  my  soul  is  stirred. 

He  lived,  he  loved,  he  died.     Brief  epitaph ! 

What  hour  of  duty  in  the  long  grim  wards 

Poisoned  his  life,  I  know  not.     Painfully 

He  sickened,  yearning  for  the  strife  of  War 

That  went  its  thunderous  way  unhelped  of  him; 

And  then  he  died.     A  little  duty  done; 

A  little  love  for  many,  much  for  me, 

And  that  was  all  beneath  this  earthly  sun. 

1889. 


THE    WHOLE    CREATION    GROANETH       27I 


PAINED    UNTO    DEATH 

E.    K.    M. 

ONE  life  I  knew  was  a  psalm,  a  terrible  psalm  of  pain, 

Dark  with  disaster  of  torment,  body  and  brain 

Racked  as  if  God  were  not,  and  hope  a  dream 

Some  demon  wrought  to  bid  this  soul  blaspheme 

All  life's  remembered  sweetness.     "  Peace,  be  still," 

I  hear  her  spirit  whisper.     "  His  the  will 

That  from  some  unseen  bow  of  purpose  sped 

Thy  sorrow  and  my  torture."     God  of  dread ! 

The  long  sad  years  that  justify  the  dead, 

The  long  sad  years  at  last  interpreted: 

Serene  as  clouds  that  over  stormy  seas 

At  sunset  rise  with  mystery  of  increase, 

One  with  the  passionate  deep  that  gave  them  birth, 

Her  gentled  spirit  rose  on  wings  of  peace, 

And  was  and  was  not  of  this  under  earth. 

1890. 


THE   WHOLE    CREATION    GROANETH 

ART  glad  with  the  gladness  of  youth  in  thy  veins, 
In  thy  hands,  for  the  spending,  earth's  joy  and  its  gains? 
Lo !  winged  with  storm  shadows  the  torturers  come, 
And  to-night,  or  to-morrow,  thy  lips  shall  be  dumb, 
Thy  hands  wet  with  pain-thrills,  thy  nerves,  that  were 

strung 
To  fineness  of  sense  by  earth's  pleasure,  be  wrung 


THE    WHOLE    CREATION    GROANETH 

With  pangs  the  beast  knows  not,  nor  he  who  in  tents 

Lives  lone  in  the  desert,  and  knoweth  not  whence 

The  bread  of  the  morrow.     Pain  like  to  a  mist 

Goeth  up  from  the  earth,  and  is  lost,  and  none  wist 

Why  ever  it  cometh,  why  ever  it  waits 

In  the  heart  of  our  loves,  like  a  foe  in  our  gates. 

Lo !  summer  and  sunshine  are  over  the  land, — 

Who  marshalled  yon  billows?  what  wind  of  command 

Drives  ever  their  merciless  march  on  the  strand? 

Thus,  dateless,  relentless,  the  children  of  strife 

None  have  seen,  on  the  sun-lighted  beaches  of  life 

March  ever  the  ravening  billows  of  pain. 

O  heart  that  is  breaking,  go  ask  of  the  brain 

If  aught  of  God's  spending  is  squandered  in  vain? 

Yea,  where  is  the  sunshine  of  centuries  dead? 

Yea,  where  are  the  raindrops  of  yesterday  shed? 

God  findeth  anew  his  lost  light  in  the  force 

That  holdeth  the  world  on  its  resolute  course, 

And  surely,  as  surely  the  madness  of  pain 

Shall  pass  into  wisdom,  and  come  back  again 

An  angel  of  courage  if  thou  art  the  one 

That  knoweth  to  deal  with  the  lightnings  that  stun 

To  blindness  the  many.     A  thousand  shall  fall 

By  the  waysides  of  life,  and  in  helplessness  call 

For  the  death-alms  which  nature  gives  freely  to  all ; 

And  one,  like  the  jewel,  shall  break  the  fierce  light 

That  blindeth  thy  vision,  and  flash  through  the  night 

The  colors  that  read  us  its  meaning  aright. 

1890. 


IN    THE   VALLEY   OF   THE    SHADOW       273 
IN    THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    SHADOW 

THE    CENTURION 

A  dark  cell  of  the  Circus  Maximus.    The  Centurion  and 
his  child. 

"  FATHER  !    father ;    hold    me    closer.     Are    they    lions 

that  I  hear? 
Once  beside  the  Syrian  desert  where  we  camped  I  heard 

them  near 
While  our  servants  made  us  music;  and  there's  music 

now.     'T  was  night, 
And  't  is  very  dark  here,  father.     There  we  had  the  stars 

for  light. 
Father,  father !  that  was  laughter,  and  the  noise  of  many 

hands. 
Why  is  it  they  make  so  merry?     Shall  we  laugh  soon? 

On  the  sands 
How  you  smiled  to  see  my  terror !  '  What/  you  said,  '  A 

Roman  maid 
Tremble  in  the  Legion's  camp !     A  Roman  maiden  and 

afraid !  ' 

"Hush!  Who  called?  Who  called  me?  Mother!  Surely 
that  was  mother's  voice." 

But  the  gray  centurion,  trembling,  murmured,  "  Little 
one,  rejoice !  " 

Yet  a  single  moan  of  sorrow  broke  the  guard  his  man 
hood  set, 

While  the  sweetness  of  her  forehead  with  a  storm  of 
tears  was  wet. 


274        IN    THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    SHADOW 

And  he  answered,  as  she  questioned,  "  That  was  but  the 

rain  God  sends 
To  the  flowers  he  loves," —  then  lower, — "  Death  and  I 

are  friends." 

"  Father,  father,  now  't  is  quiet.     Was  it  mother  ?     I  am 

cold. 
Who,  I  wonder,  feeds  my  carp?  who,  I  wonder,  at  the 

fold 
Combs  my  lambs?  who  prunes  my  roses?     Think  you 

they  will  keep  us  long 
From  the  sunshine  ?     Hark,  the  lions !     Ah !  they  must 

be  fierce  and  strong !  " 

"  Peace,    my   daughter.     Soon   together   we   shall    walk 

through  gardens  fair, 

Where  the  lilies  psalms  are  singing,  and  the  roses  whis 
per  prayer." 
"Who  will  bring  us  to  the  garden?  "  "  Christ !  Thou  wilt 

not  hear  him  call; 
Suddenly  wide  doors  shall  open;  on  thy  eyes  the  sun 

shall  fall; 
Thou  shalt  see  God's  lions,  waiting,  and,  above,  a  living 

wall. 

Yea,  ten  thousand  faces  waiting,  come  to  help  our  holiday, 
Music,  flowers,  and  the  Caesar. —  Rest  upon  my  shoulder, 

lay 
One    small   hand   in   nr'ne, —  and    peace.     A    moment   I 

would  think  and  pray. 

"  I  am  sore  with  shame  and  scourging,  I,  a  Roman !     I, 

a  knight ! 
Yea,  if  nobly  born,  the  nobler  for  the  birth  of  higher  light. 


IN    THE   VALLEY    OF   THE    SHADOW        275 

Was  it  pain,  and  was  it  shame?     The  lictor's  rods  fell  on 

a  man; 
On  the  God-man  fell  those  scourges,  and  the  bitter  drops 

that  ran 
Flowed  from  eyes  that  wept  for  millions,  came  of  pain 

none  else  can  know, 

An  eternity  of  anguish,  counted  as  the  blood  drops  flow. 
Mine  is  but  an  atom's  torment;  mine  shall  bring  eternal 

gain; 
His,  the  murder  pangs  of  ages,  paid  with  usury  of  pain. 

"  Art  thou  weary  of  the  darkness  ?     Art  thou  cold,  my 

little  maid? 
Hast  thou  sorrow  of  my  sorrow?     Kiss  my  cheek.     Be 

not  dismayed. 
Lo,  the  nearness  of  one  moment  setteth  age  to  lonely 

thought, 
Would  his  will  but  make  us  one  ere  yet  his  perfect  will 

be  wrought. 
That  may  not  be.     Once,  once  only  Love  must  drop  the 

hand  of  love." 
"  Father,  father  !  Hark,  the  lions  !  "     "  Peace,  my  little 

one,  my  dove ; 
Soon  thy  darkened  cage  will  open,   soon  the  voice  of 

Christ  will  say, 

'  Come  and  be  among  my  lilies,  where  the  golden  foun 
tains  play, 

And  an  angel  legion  watches,  and  forever  it  is  day.' 
So,  my  hand  upon  thy  shoulder.     Thou,  so  little !  I,  so 

tall! 
Now,  one  kiss  —  earth's  last !     My  darling." —  Back  the 

iron  gate-bolts  fall. 
Lo,  the  gray  arena  's  quiet,  and  the  faces  waiting  all, 


A    CANTICLE    OF    TIME 

Waiting,  and  the  lions  waiting,  while  the  gray  centurion 

smiled, 
As,  beneath  the  white  velarium,  fell  God's  sunlight  on 

the  child: 
For  a  gentle  voice  above  them  murmured,  "  Forth,  and 

have  no  fear/' 
And  the  little  maiden  answered,  "  Lo,  Christ  Jesu,  I  am 

here !  " 

1890. 


A    CANTICLE    OF    TIME 

HOURS  of  grieving, 

Hours  of  thought; 

Hours  of  believing, 

Hours  of  naught. 

Hours  when  the  thieving 

Fingers  of  doubt  steal 

Heart  riches,  faith  bought. 

Hours  of  spirit  dearth, 

Earthy,  and  born  of  earth, 

When  the  racked  universe 

Is  as  a  hell,  or  worse. 

Hours  when  the  curtain,  furled 

Backward,  revealed  to  us 

Sorrowful  sin-gulfs 

Self  had  concealed  from  us. 

Hours  of  wretchedness; 

Palsies  that  blind. 

Hours  none  else  can  guess, 

When  the  dumb  mind 


A    CANTICLE   OF   TIME  277 

Faints,  and  heart  wisdom 
Is  all  that  we  find. 
Hours  when  the  cloud 
That  hides  the  unknown, 
A  cumbering  shroud, 
About  us  is  thrown. 
Hours  that  seem  to  part 
Goodness  and  God. 
Hours  of  fierce  yearning, 
When  fruit  of  love's  earning 
Is  shred  from  the  heart. 
Hours  when  no  angel 
Hovers  o'er  life. 
Hours  when  no  Christ-God 
Pities  our  strife. 
Yea,  such  is  life ! 

Slowly  the  hours 
Gather  to  years; 
They  deal  with  our  tears 
That  grief  be  not  vain, 
Gently  as  flowers 
Deal  with  the  rain. 
Slowly  the  hours 
Gather  to  years, 
Sowing  with  roses 
The  graves  of  our  fears. 
Lo !  the  dark  crosses 
Of  torture's  completeness 
Mistily  fade  into 
Symbols  of  sweetness, 
And  behold  it  is  evening. 
Swift  through  the  grass 


278  A    CANTICLE   OF   TIME 

Shuttles  of  shadow 
Silently  pass, 
Weaving  at  last 
Tapestries  sombre, 
Solemn  and  vast, 
And  behold  it  is  night! 
Silence  profound, 
Solitude  vacant 
Of  touch  and  of  sound 
Thy  being  doth  bound. 
This  is  death's  loneliness, 
Answerless,  pitiless ! 
What  of  thee  was  king, 
Let  it  crownless  descend 
From  its  tottering  throne; 
Lo !  thou  art  alone, 
And  behold,  't  is  the  end ! 

What  sayeth  the  soul? 
"  God  wasteth  naught. 
Thinkest,  in  vain 
He  sowed  in  thy  childhood 
Thought-seed  in  the  brain, 
And  the  joy  to  create, 
Like  his  own  joy,  and  will, 
Like  a  fragment  of  fate 
For  the  godlike  control 
Of  the  heaven  of  thy  angels, 
The  loves  of  thy  soul? 
Ay,  strong  for  the  rule 
Of  devils  that  tempt  thee, 
Of  demons  that  fool? 
Shall  so  much  of  Him 


LINCOLN  279 

Merely  perish  in  haste, 

Just  stumble,  and  die, 

And  Death  be  a  jester's  mad  riddle 

Without  a  reply? 

And  Life  naught  but  waste? 

Behold,  it  is  day," 

Saith  the  soul. 

1890. 


LINCOLN 

CHAINED  by  stern  duty  to  the  rock  of  State, 
His  spirit  armed  in  mail  of  rugged  mirth, 
Ever  above,  though  ever  near  to  earth, 
Yet  felt  his  heart  the  cruel  tongues  that  sate 

Base  appetites,  and  foul  with  slander,  wait 
Till  the  keen  lightnings  bring  the  awful  hour 
When  wounds  and  suffering  shall  give  them  power. 
Most  was  he  like  to  Luther,  gay  and  great, 

Solemn  and  mirthful,  strong  of  heart  and  limb. 
Tender  and  simple  too;  he  was  so  near 
To  all  things  human  that  he  cast  out  fear, 

And,  ever  simpler,  like  a  little  child, 

Lived  in  unconscious  nearness  unto  Him 
Who  always  on  earth's  little  ones  hath  smiled. 

NEWPORT,  October  1891. 


280  COLERIDGE    AT    CHAMOUNY 


COLERIDGE   AT    CHAMOUNY 

I  WOULD  I  knew  what  ever  happy  stone 

Of  all  these  dateless  records,  gray  and  vast, 

Keeps  silent  memory  of  that  sunrise  lone 

When,  lost  to  earth,  the  soul  of  Coleridge  passed 

From  earthly  time  to  one  immortal  hour: 

There  thought's  faint  stir  woke  echoes  of  the  mind 

That  broke  to  thunder  tones  of  mightier  power 

From  depths  and  heights  mysterious,  undefined; 

As  when  the  soft  snows,  drifting  from  the  rock, 

Rouse  the  wild  clamor  of  the  avalanche  shock. 

Who  may  not  envy  him  that  awful  morn 
When  marvelling  at  his  risen  self  he  trod, 
And  thoughts  intense  as  pain  were  fiercely  born, 
Till  rose  his  soul  in  one  great  psalm  to  God. 
A  man  to-morrow  weak  as  are  the  worst, 
A  man  to  whom  all  depths,  all  heights  belong, 
Now  with  too  bitter  hours  of  weakness  cursed, 
Now  winged  with  vigor,  as  a  giant  strong 
To  take  our  groping  hearts  with  tender  hand, 
And  set  them  surely  where  God's  angels  stand. 

On  peaks  of  lofty  contemplation  raised, 

Such  as  shall  never  see  earth's  common  son, 

High  as  the  snowy  altar  which  he  praised, 

An  hour's  creative  ecstasy  he  won. 

Yet,  in  this  frenzy  of  the  lifted  soul 

Mocked  him  the  nothingness  of  human  speech, 

When  through  his  being  visions  past  control 

Swept,  strong  as  mountain  streams. —  Alas !  to  reach 


TENNYSON  281 

Words  equal-winged  as  thought  to  none  is  given, 
To  none  of  earth  to  speak  the  tongue  of  heaven. 

The  eagle-flight  of  genius  gladness  hath, 

And  joy  is  ever  with  its  victor  swoop 

Through  sun  and  storm.     Companionless  its  path 

In  earthly  realms,  and,  when  its  pinions  droop, 

Faint  memories  only  of  the  heavenly  sun, 

Dim  records  of  ethereal  space  it  brings 

To  show  how  haughty  was  the  height  it  won, 

To  prove  what  freedom  had  its  airy  wings. 

This  is  the  curse  of  genius,  that  earth's  night 

Dims  the  proud  glory  of  its  heavenward  flight. 

1888. 

TENNYSON 

THE  larks  of  song  that  high  o'erhead 

Sung  joyous  in  my  boyhood's  sky, 
Save  one,  are  with  the  silent  dead, 

Those  larks  that  knew  to  soar  so  high. 

But  still  with  ever  surer  flight, 

One  singer  of  unfailing  trust 
Chants  at  the  gates  of  morn  and  night 

Great  songs  that  lift  us  from  the  dust, 

And  heavenward  call  tired  hearts  that  grieve, 

Beneath  the  vast  horizon  given 
With  larger  breadth  of  morn  and  eve, 

To  this  one  lark  alone  in  heaven. 

1890. 


282  CERVANTES 


CERVANTES 

THERE  are  who  gather  with  decisive  power 
The  mantle  of  contentment  round  their  souls, 
And  face  with  strange  serenity  the  hour 
Of  pain,  or  grief,  or  any  storm  that  rolls 
Destruction  o'er  the  tender  joys  of  life. 

There  are  whom  some  great  quest  of  heart  or  brain 
Keeps  even-poised,  whatever  fate  the  years 
May  fetch  to  mock  with  lesser  loss  or  gain, 
And  find  brief  joy  in  smiles,  small  grief  in  tears, 
And  tranquil  take  the  hurts  of  human  strife. 

A  few  there  be  who,  spendthrift  heirs  of  mirth 
Immortal,  mock  the  insolence  of  fate, 
And  with  a  breath  of  jesting  round  the  earth 
Ripple  men's  cheeks  with  smiles,  and  gay,  elate, 
Sit  ever  in  the  sunshine  of  their  mood. 

Oh,  royal  master  of  all  merry  chords, 

Of  every  note  in  mirth's  delightful  scale, 

To  thee  was  spared  no  pang  that  earth  affords, 

Nor  any  woe  of  sorrow's  endless  tale, — 

Want,  prison,  wounds,  all  that  has  man  subdued; 

But,  light  of  soul,  as  if  all  life  were  joy, 
Forever  armed  with  humor's  shining  mail, 
True-hearted,  gallant,  free  from  scorn's  alloy, 
When  life  was  beggared  of  its  best,  and  frail 
Grew  hope,  't  is  said  thou  still  wert  lord  of  smiles. 


CERVANTES  283 

This  could  I  wish;  and  yet  it  well  may  be 
Thy  heart  smiled  not,  for  wit,  like  fairy  gold, 
Mayhap  won  naught  for  him  who  scattered  glee, 
No  help  for  him  by  whom  the  jest  was  told, — 
The  world's  sad  fool,  whose  ever-ready  wiles 

Rang  the  glad  bells  of  laughter  down  the  years, 
And  cheated  pain  with  merry  mysteries, 
And  from  a  prison  cell,  the  twins  of  tears, 
Sent  forth  his  Don  and  Squire  to  win  at  ease 
Such  joy  of  mirth  as  his  could  never  be. 

Ah,  who  can  say !     His  latest  day  of  pain 

Took  Shakespeare's  kindred  soul.     I  trust  they  met 

Where  smiles  are  frequent,  and  the  saddest  gain 

What  earth  denies,  the  privilege  to  forget 

"The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely." 

But  where  he  sleeps,  the  land  which  gave  him  birth, 
And  gave  no  more  to  him,  its  greatest  child, 
Knows  not  to-day.     Some  levelled  heap  of  earth, 
Some  nameless  stone,  lies  o'er  him  who  beguiled 
So  many  a  heart  from  thinking  on  its  pain. 

Yet  I  can  fancy  that  at  morning  there 
The  birds  sing  gladder,  and  at  evening  still 
The  peasant,  resting  from  his  day  of  care, 
Goes  joyous  thence  with  some  mysterious  thrill 
Of  lightsome  mirth,  whose  cause  he  seeks  in  vain. 

October  1888. 


284  HERNDON 


OF    A    POET 

WRITTEN    FOR     A    CHILD 

HE  sang  of  brooks,  and  trees,  and  flowers, 
Of  mountain  tarns,  of  wood-wild  bowers, 
The  wisdom  of  the  starry  skies, 
The  mystery  of  childhood's  eyes, 
The  violet's  scent,  the  daisy's  dress, 
The  timid  breeze's  shy  caress. 
Whilst  England  waged  her  fiery  wars 
He  praised  the  silence  of  the  stars, 
And  clear  and  sweet  as  upland  rills 
The  gracious  wisdom  of  her  hills. 
Save  once  when  Clifford's  fate  he  sang, 
And  bugle-like  his  lyric  rang, 
He  prized  the  ways  of  lowly  men, 
And  trod,  with  them,  the  moor  and  fen. 
Fair  Nature  to  this  lover  dear 
Bent  low  to  whisper  or  to  hear 
The  secrets  of  her  sky  and  earth, 
In  gentle  Words  of  golden  Worth. 

1886. 


HERNDON 

AY,  shout  and  rave,  thou  cruel  sea, 
In  triumph  o'er  that  fated  deck, 

Grown  holy  by  another  grave  — 
Thou  hast  the  captain  of  the  wreck. 


HERNDON  285 

No  prayer  was  said,  no  lesson  read, 

O'er  him,  the  soldier  of  the  sea; 
And  yet  for  him,  through  all  the  land, 

A  thousand  thoughts  to-night  shall  be. 

And  many  an  eye  shall  dim  with  tears, 
And  many  a  cheek  be  flushed  with  pride; 

And  men  shall  say,  There  died  a  man, 
And  boys  shall  learn  how  well  he  died ! 

Ay,  weep  for  him,  whose  noble  soul 
Is  with  the  God  who  made  it  great; 

But  weep  not  for  so  proud  a  death, — 
We  could  not  spare  so  grand  a  fate. 

Nor  could  Humanity  resign 

That  hour  which  bade  her  heart  beat  high, 
And  blazoned  Duty's  stainless  shield, 

And  set  a  star  in  Honor's  sky. 

O  dreary  night !     O  grave  of  hope  ! 

O  sea,  and  dark,  unpitying  sky ! 
Full  many  a  wreck  these  waves  shall  claim 

Ere  such  another  heart  shall  die. 

Alas,  how  can  we  help  but  mourn 

When  hero  bosoms  yield  their  breath ! 

A  century  itself  may  bear 

But  once  the  flower  of  such  a  death ; 

So  full  of  manliness,  so  sweet 

With  utmost  duty  nobly  done; 
So  thronged  with  deeds,  so  filled  with  life, 

As  though  with  death  that  life  begun. 


286          THE   TOMBS   OF   THE   REGICIDES 

It  has  begun,  true  gentleman ! 

No  better  life  we  ask  for  thee; 
Thy  Viking  soul  and  woman  heart 

Forever  shall  a  beacon  be, — 

A  starry  thought  to  eager  souls, 
To  teach  it  is  not  best  to  live; 

To  show  that  life  has  naught  to  match 
Such  knighthood  as  the  grave  can  give. 

1857. 


THE    TOMBS    OF    THE    REGICIDES 

LUDLOW    AND    BROUGHTON 

ALONE  on  the  vine-covered  hillside, 
Set  gray  'gainst  the  ivy-clad  walnuts, 
Stands,  sombre  as  Calvin,  and  barren 
Of  crucifix,  altar,  and  picture, 
The  church  of  St.  Martin.     A  stranger, 
I  stood  where  the  pride  of  its  arches 
Looks  scorn  on  the  Puritan's  sadness. 
Not  prouder  for  Switzerland's  annals 
The  glory  of  Morat  or  Sempach 
Than  these  darkened  tablets  that  tell  us 
How  gladly  for  Ludlow  and  Broughton 
She  lifted  the  shield  of  protection, 
How  sternly  she  answered  the  summons 
To  render  her  guests  to  the  headsman. 
The  parents  that  gave  their  true  soul-life 
Were  England  and  Freedom.     Ah,  surely 
With  courage  and  conscience  they  honored 


KEARSARGE  287 

That  parentage  costly  of  sorrow, 

And  did  the  just  deed  and  abided. 

Long,  long  were  the  days  that  God  gave  them 

With  friendships  and  peace  in  this  refuge, 

Where  sadly  they  yearned  for  the  home-land, 

And  saw  their  great  Oliver's  England 

Bowed  low  in  the  dust  of  dishonor. 

VEVAY,  August  19,  1888. 


KEARSARGE 

SUNDAY  in  Old  England: 
In  gray  churches  everywhere 

The  calm  of  low  responses, 
The  sacred  hush  of  prayer. 

Sunday  in  Old  England; 

And  summer  winds  that  went 
O'er  the  pleasant  fields  of  Sussex, 

The  garden  lands  of  Kent, 

Stole  into  dim  church  windows 
And  passed  the  oaken  door, 

And  fluttered  open  prayer-books 
With  the  cannon's  awful  roar. 

Sunday  in  New  England: 

Upon  a  mountain  gray 
The  wind-bent  pines  are  swaying 

Like  giants  at  their  play; 


288       HOW    THE    CUMBERLAND   WENT   DOWN 

Across  the  barren  lowlands, 
Where  men  find  scanty  food, 

The  north  wind  brings  its  vigor 
To  homesteads  plain  and  rude. 

Ho,  land  of  pine  and  granite ! 

Ho,  hardy  northland  breeze  ! 
Well  have  you  trained  the  manhood 

That  shook  the  Channel  seas, 

When  o'er  those  storied  waters 

The  iron  war-bolts  flew, 
And  through  Old  England's  churches 

The  summer  breezes  blew; 

While  in  our  other  England  ' 

Stirred  one  gaunt  rocky  steep, 

When  rode  her  sons  as  victors, 
Lords  of  the  lonely  deep. 

LONDON,  July  20,  1864. 


HOW  THE  CUMBERLAND  WENT 
DOWN 

GRAY  swept  the  angry  waves 
O'er  the  gallant  and  the  true, 

Rolled  high  in  mounded  graves 
O'er  the  stately  frigate's  crew  — 

Over  cannon,  over  deck, 

Over  all  that  ghastly  wreck, — 

When  the  Cumberland  went  down. 


HOW    THE    CUMBERLAND    WENT   DOWN       289 

Such  a  roar  the  waters  rent 

As  though  a  giant  died, 
When  the  wailing  billows  went 

Above  those  heroes  tried; 
And  the  sheeted  foam  leaped  high, 
Like  white  ghosts  against  the  sky, — 
As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 


O  shrieking  waves  that  gushed 

Above  that  loyal  band, 
Your  cold,  cold  burial  rushed 

O'er  many  a  heart  on  land! 
And  from  all  the  startled  North 
A  cry  of  pain  broke  forth, 

When  the  Cumberland  went  down. 


And  forests  old,  that  gave 
A  thousand  years  of  power 

To  her  lordship  of  the  wave 
And  her  beauty's  regal  dower, 

Bent,  as  though  before  a  blast, 

When  plunged  her  pennoned  mast, 
And  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

And  grimy  mines  that  sent 
To  her  their  virgin  strength, 

And  iron  vigor  lent 

To  knit  her  lordly  length, 

Wildly  stirred  with  throbs  of  life, 

Echoes  of  that  fatal  strife, 

As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 


290  MY    CASTLES    IN    SPAIN      . 

Beneath  the  ocean  vast, 
Full  many  a  captain  bold, 

By  many  a  rotting  mast, 
And  admiral  of  old, 

Rolled  restless  in  his  grave 

As  he  felt  the  sobbing  wave, 

When  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

And  stern  Vikings  that  lay 
A  thousand  years  at  rest, 

In  many  a  deep  blue  bay 
Beneath  the  Baltic's  breast, 

Leaped  on  the  silver  sands, 

And  shook  their  rusty  brands, 

As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

1862. 


MY   CASTLES    IN    SPAIN 

Ho,  joyous  friend  with  beard  of  brown ! 

A  half-hour  back  'twas  gray; 

A  half-hour  back  you  wore  a  frown, 

But  now  the  world  looks  gay. 

For  here  the  mirror's  courtly  grace 

Cheats  you  with  a  youthful  face, 

And  here  the  poet  clock  of  time 

Each  happy  minute  counts  in  rhyme; 

And  here  the  roses  never  die, 

And  "  Yes  "  is  here  Love's  sole  reply. 

Gladder  land  can  no  man  gain 

Than  my  mystic  realm  of  Spain. 


MY    CASTLES    IN    SPAIN  291 

Come  with  me,  for  I  am  one 
Hidalgo-born  of  Aragon ; 
I  will  show  you  why  I  choose 
Thus  to  live  in  Andalouse. 
Across  the  terrace,  up  the  stair, 
Our  steps  shall  wander  to  and  fro 
Where  pensive  stand  the  statues  fair, 
And  murmur  songs  of  long  ago. 
Or  will  you  see  my  pictures  old, 
The  landscapes  hung  for  my  delight 
In  window-frames  of  fretted  gold, 
Where,  glowing,  shines  in  color  bright 
That  Claude  of  mine  at  full  of  noon, 
When  the  ripe,  eager  blood  of  June 
Stirs  bird  and  leaf,  and  everywhere 
The  world  is  one  gay  love-affair? 
Or  shall  we  linger,  looking  west, 
Just  when  my  Turner  's  at  its  best, 
To  watch  the  cold  stars,  one  by  one, 
Crawl  to  the  embers  of  the  sun, 
Whilst  all  the  gray  sierra  snows 
Are  ruddy  with  the  twilight  rose? 
Believe  me,  artists  there  are  none 
Like  those  of  mine  in  Aragon; 
Nor  painter  would  I  care  to  choose 
Beside  the  sun  of  Andalouse. 
Or  shall  we  part  the  shining  leaves 
Down  drooping  from  the  vine-clad  eaves, 
And  see,  amidst  the  sombre  pines, 
The  maiden  take  a  shameless  kiss? 
Around  his  neck  her  white  arm  twines, 
And  still  is  sweet  their  changeless  bliss. 
I  know  she  cannot  aught  refuse, 


MY    CASTLES    IN    SPAIN 

For  that 's  the  law  in  Andalouse, 
And  ever  'neath  this  happy  sun 
There  is  no  sin  in  Aragon. 
Or  shall  we  cast  yon  casement  wide, 
And  see  the  knights  before  us  ride, 
The  charging  Cid,  the  Moors  that  flee? 
Grim  although  the  battles  be 
That  through  my  window-frames  I  see, 
No  death  is  there,  nor  any  pain, 
Because  on  my  estates  in  Spain 
All  passions  gaily  run  their  course, 
But  lack  the  shadow-fiend  remorse. 
Something  't  is  to  make  one  vain 
Thus  to  be  grandee  of  Spain; 
For  the  wine  of  Andalouse 
All  the  world  a  man  might  lose, 
Could  he  see  what  rosy  shapes 
Trample  out  my  Spanish  grapes, 
Know  how  pink  the  feet  that  bruise 
My  gold-green  grapes  of  Andalouse. 
Ah,  but  if  you  're  not  a  don, 
Drink  no  wine  of  Aragon. 
Dreamland  loves  and  elfin  flavors, 
Gay  romances,  fairy  favors, 
Moonlit  mists  and  glad  confusions, 
Youth's  brief  mystery  of  delusions, 
Racing,  chasing,  haunt  the  brain 
Of  him  who  drinks  this  wine  of  Spain. 
Where  the  quarterings  were  won 
That  make  of  me  a  Spanish  don 
No  one  asks  in  Aragon. 
Never  blood  of  Bourbon  grew 
So  magnificently  blue; 


MY    CASTLES    IN    SPAIN  293 

Blood  have  I  that  once  was  Dante's; 

Kinsman  am  I  of  Cervantes. 

Come  and  see  what  nobles  fine 

Make  my  proud  ancestral  line : 

In  my  gallery  set  apart, 

Lo  where  art  interprets  art. 

Yes,  you  needs  must  like  it  well, — 

Shakespeare's  face  by  Raphael. 

Ah,  't  is  very  nobly  done, 

But  that 's  the  air  of  Aragon. 

He  left  me  that  which  till  life  ends 

Is  surely  mine, —  the  best  of  friends; 

And  chiefly  one,  if  you  would  know, 

I  love  of  all,  Mercutio. 

Velasquez?     Ay,  he  knew  a  man, 

And  well  he  drew  my  Puritan, 

With  eyes  too  full  of  heaven's  light 

To  dream  our  day  as  aught  but  night. 

If  my  soul  stirs  swift  at  wrong, 

This  sire  made  that  instinct  strong. 

Da  Vinci  touched  with  love  the  face 

That  keeps  for  me  young  Surrey's  grace. 

And  that, —  ah,  that  is  one  to  like, 

My  kinsman  Sidney,  by  Vandyke. 

Some  words  he  gave,  of  which  bereft 

My  life  were  poorer.     There,  to  left 

Are  they  whose  rills  of  English  song 

Unto  my  royal  blood  belong. 

For  poet,  painter,  priest,  and  lay 

Went  to  make  my  Spanish  clay; 

And  here  away  in  Andalouse, 

Whatever  mood  my  soul  may  choose, 

The  poet's  joy,  the  soldier's  force, 


294  DREAMLAND 

Finds  for  me  its  parent  source 
Where,  along  the  pictured  wall, 
Hero  voices  on  me  call, 
With  the  falling  of  the  dews, 
In  Aragon  or  Andalouse, 
When  the  mystic  shadows  troop, 
When  my  fairy  flowers  droop, 
And  the  joyous  day  is  done 
In  Andalouse  or  Aragon. 

GRANADA,  May  27,  1888. 


DREAMLAND 

Up  Anchor  !     Up  anchor  ! 

Set  sail  and  away! 
The  ventures  of  dreamland 

Are  thine  for  a  day. 
Yo,  heave  ho! 

Aloft  and  alow 
Elf  sailors  are  singing, 

Yo,  heave  ho ! 
The  breeze  that  is  blowing 

So  sturdily  strong 
Shall  fill  up  thy  sail 

With  the  breath  of  a  song. 
A  fay  at  the  mast-head 

Keeps  watch  o'er  the  sea ; 
Blown  amber  of  tresses 

Thy  banner  shall  be; 
Thy  freight  the  lost  laughter 


DREAMLAND  295 


That  sad  souls  have  missed, 
Thy  cargo  the  kisses 

That  never  were  kissed. 
And  ho,  for  a  fay  maid 

Born  merry  in  June, 
Of  dainty  red  roses 

Beneath  a  red  moon. 
The  star-pearls  that  midnight 

Casts  down  on  the  sea, 
Dark  gold  of  the  sunset 

Her  fortune  shall  be. 
And  ever  she  whispers, 

More  tenderly  sweet, 
"  Love  am  I,  love  only, 

Love  perfect,  complete. 
The  world  is  my  lordship, 

The  heart  is  my  slave; 
I  mock  at  the  ages, 

I  laugh  at  the  grave. 
Wilt  sail  with  me  ever 

A  dream-haunted  sea, 
Whose  whispering  waters 

Shall  murmur  to  thee 
The  love-haunted  lyrics 

Dead  poets  have  made 
Ere  life  had  a  fetter, 

Ere  love  was  afraid?" 
Then  up  with  the  anchor ! 

Set  sail  and  away ! 
The  ventures  of  loveland 

Are  thine  for  a  day. 

NEWPORT,  1890. 


296  THE    QUAKER    LADY 


THE    QUAKER    LADY 

'MiD  drab  and  gray  of  moldered  leaves, 

The  spoil  of  last  October, 
I  see  the  Quaker  lady  stand 

In  dainty  garb  and  sober. 

No  speech  has  she  for  praise  or  prayer, 

No  blushes,  as  I  claim 
To  know  what  gentle  whisper  gave 

Her  prettiness  a  name. 

The  wizard  stillness  of  the  hour 

My  fancy  aids:  again 
Return  the  days  of  hoop  and  hood 

And  tranquil  William  Penn. 

I  see  a  maid  amid  the  wood 
Demurely  calm  and  meek, 
Or  troubled  by  the  mob  of  curls 
That  riots  on  her  cheek. 

Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  cheeks  are  red, — 

Gay  colors  for  a  Friend, — 
And  Nature  with  her  mocking  rouge 

Stands  by  a  blush  to  lend. 

The  gown  that  holds  her  rosy  grace 

Is  truly  of  the  oddest; 
And  wildly  leaps  her  tender  heart 

Beneath  the  kerchief  modest. 


THE   QUAKER    LADY  297 

It  must  have  been  the  poet  Love 

Who,  while  she  slyly  listened, 
Divined  the  maiden  in  the  flower, 

And  thus  her  semblance  christened. 


Was  he  a  proper  Quaker  lad 

In  suit  of  simple  gray? 
What  fortune  had  his  venturous  speech, 

And  was  it  "  yea  "  or  "  nay  "  ? 

And  if  indeed  she  murmured  "  yea," 
And  throbbed  with  worldly  bliss, 

I  wonder  if  in  such  a  case 
Do  Quakers  really  kiss? 

Or  was  it  some  love-wildered  beau 

Of  old  colonial  days, 
With  clouded  cane  and  broidered  coat, 

And  very  artful  ways? 

And  did  he  whisper  through  her  curls 
Some  wicked,  pleasant  vow, 

And  swear  no  courtly  dame  had  words 
As  sweet  as  "  thee  "  and  "  thou  "  ? 

Or  did  he  praise  her  dimpled  chin 

In  eager  song  or  sonnet, 
And  find  a  merry  way  to  cheat 

Her  kiss-defying  bonnet? 

And  sang  he  then  in  verses  gay, 
Amid  this  forest  shady, 


THE    QUAKER    LADY 

The  dainty  flower  at  her  feet 
Was  like  his  Quaker  lady? 

And  did  she  pine  in  English  fogs, 

Or  was  his  love  enough  ? 
And  did  she  learn  to  sport  the  fan, 

And  use  the  patch  and  puff? 

Alas !  perhaps  she  played  quadrille, 
And,  naughty  grown  and  older, 

Was  pleased  to  show  a  dainty  neck 
Above  a  snowy  shoulder. 

But  sometimes  in  the  spring,  I  think, 

She  saw,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  meeting-house,  the  home  sedate, 

The  Schuylkill's  quiet  stream ; 

And  sometimes  in  the  minuet's  pause 
Her  heart  went  wide  afield 

To  where,  amid  the  woods  of  May, 
A  blush  its  love  revealed. 

Till  far  away  from  court  and  king 
And  powder  and  brocade, 

The  Quaker  ladies  at  her  feet 
Their  quaint  obeisance  made. 

NEWPORT,  1889. 


THE   QUAKER    GRAVEYARD  299 

THE   QUAKER   GRAVEYARD 

FOUR  straight  brick  walls,  severely  plain, 

A  quiet  city  square  surround; 
A  level  space  of  nameless  graves, — 

The  Quakers'  burial-ground. 

In  gown  of  gray,  or  coat  of  drab, 
They  trod  the  common  ways  of  life, 

With  passions  held  in  sternest  leash, 
And  hearts  that  knew  not  strife. 

To  yon  grim  meeting-house  they  fared, 
With  thoughts  as  sober  as  their  speech, 

To  voiceless  prayer,  to  songless  praise, 
To  hear  the  elders  preach. 

Through  quiet  lengths  of  days  they  came 
With  scarce  a  change  to  this  repose; 

Of  all  life's  loveliness  they  took 
The  thorn  without  the  rose. 

But  in  the  porch  and  o'er  the  graves, 
Glad  rings  the  southward  robin's  glee, 

And  sparrows  fill  the  autumn  air 
With  merry  mutiny; 

While  on  the  graves  of  drab  and  gray 

The  red  and  gold  of  autumn  lie, 
And  wilful  Nature  decks  the  sod 

In  gentlest  mockery. 

1879- 


3°°  DOMINIQUE   DE    GOURGUES 


DOMINIQUE    DE   GOURGUES 

IN  his  cheerful  Norman  orchard 
Lay  De  Gourgues  of  Mont  Marsan, 

Gascon  to  the  core,  and  merry, 
Just  a  well-contented  man, 

With  his  pipe,  that  comrade  constant, 

Won  in  sorrowful  Algiers, 
In  the  slave's  brief  rest  at  evening 

Left  for  curses  and  for  tears. 

Peacefully  he  pondered,  gazing 

Where  his  plough-ribbed  cornfields  lay, 

With  their  touch  of  hopeful  verdure, 
Waiting  patient  for  the  May. 

Joyous  from  the  terrace  o'er  him 
Came  the  voice  of  wife  and  child, 

And  the  sunlit  smoke  curled  upward 
As  the  gaunt  old  trooper  smiled. 

"  St.  Denis,"  quoth  the  stout  De  Gourgues, 
"  Yon  beehive's  ever  busy  hum 

Doth  like  me  better  than  the  noise 
Of  the  musketoon  and  drum. 

"  Tough  am  I,  though  this  skin  of  mine 
By  steel  and  bullet  well  is  scarred, 

Like  those  round  pippins  overhead 
By  the  thrushes  pecked  and  marred. 


DOMINIQUE   DE    GOURGUES  3OI 

"  Forsooth  I  'm  somewhat  autumn-ripe, 
Yet  like  my  apples  sound  and  red. 

And  life  is  sweet,"  said  stout  De  Gourgues, 
"  Yea,  verily  sweet,"  he  said. 

"  Three  things  there  were  I  once  did  love  — 

One  that  gay  jester  of  Navarre, 
And  one  to  sack  a  Spanish  town, 

And  one  the  wild  wrath  of  war. 

"  And  two  there  were  I  hated  well  — 

One  that  carrion  beast,  a  Moor, 
And  one  that  passeth  him  for  spite, 

That 's  a  Spaniard,  rest  you  sure." 

Still  he  smoked,  and  musing  murmured, 
"  There  be  three  things  well  I  like, 

My  pipe,  my  ease,  this  quiet  life, 
Better  far  than  push  of  pike. 

"  And  to-day  there  be  two  I  love 

Who  lured  me  out  of  the  strife, 
The  lad  who  plays  with  my  rusty  blade, 

And  the  little  Gascon  wife. 

"  Parbleu !  parbleu !  "  cried  gray  De  Gourgues, 

For  at  his  side  there  stood 
A  soldier,  scarred  and  worn  and  white, 

In  a  cuirass  dark  with  blood. 

"  Ventre  Saint  Gris !  good  friend,  halloa ! 

Art  sorely  hurt,  and  how?  and  why? 
Art  Huguenot?    Here  's  help  at  need: 

Or  Catholic?    What  care  1 1" 


302  DOMINIQUE   DE   GOURGUES 

No  motion  had  the  white  wan  lips, 

The  mail-clad  chest  no  breathing  stirred, 

Though  clear  as  rings  a  vengeful  blade 
Fell  every  whispered  word. 

"  That  Jean  Ribaut  am  I 

Who  sailed  for  the  land  of  flowers; 
Fore  God  our  tryst  is  surely  set; 

I  wearily  count  the  hours." 

And  slowly  rose  the  steel-clad  hand, 
And  westward  pointing  stayed  as  set: 

"  Thy  peace  is  gone !     No  morn  shall  dawn 
Will  let  thee  e'er  forget. 

"  Thy  brothers,  the  dead,  lie  there, 
Where  only  the  winds  complain, 

And  under  their  gallows  walk 
The  mocking  lords  of  Spain. 

"  If  ever  this  France  be  dear, 

And  honor  as  life  to  thee, 
Thy  wife,  thy  child  are  naught  to-day, 

Thy  errand  's  on  the  sea." 

"  St.  Denis  to  save !  "  cried  stout  De  Gourgues, 
"  One  may  dream,  it  seems,  by  day." 

The  man  was  gone  ! —  but  where  he  stood 
A  rusted  steel  glove  lay. 

"  I  Ve  heard  —  yea  twice  —  this  troublous  tale, 

It  groweth  full  old  indeed; 
But  old  or  new,  my  sword  is  sheathed 

For  ghost  or  king  or  creed." 


DOMINIQUE   DE    GOURGUES  3°3 

Full  slow  he  turned  and  climbed  the  hill, 

And  thrice  looked  back  to  see: 
"  The  dream  !  The  glove  ! —  Plow  came  it 
there?  — 

What  matters  a  glove  to  me?  " 

But  day  by  day  as  one  distraught 
He  stood,  or  gazed  upon  the  board; 

Nor  heard  the  voice  of  wife  or  boy, 
Nor  took  of  the  wine  they  poured. 

He  saw  his  bannerol  flutter  forth, 

As  tossed  by  the  wind  of  fight, 
And  watched  his  sheathed  sword  o'er  the  hearth 

Leap  flashing  to  the  light. 

He  told  her  all.     "  Now  God  be  praised !  " 
She  cried,  while  the  hot  tears  ran; 

"  She  little  loves  who  loves  not  more 
His  honor  than  the  man." 

His  lands  are  sold.     A  stranger's  hand 
The  juice  of  his  grapes  shall  strain; 

Another,  too,  shall  reap  the  hopes 
He  sowed  with  the  winter  grain. 

His  way  was  o'er  the  windy  seas, 
But,  sailed  he  fast  or  sailed  he  slow, 

He  saw  by  day,  he  saw  by  night, 
The  face  of  Jean  Ribaut. 

The  sun  rose  crimson  with  the  morn, 

Or  set  at  eve  a  ghastly  red, 
While  over  blue  Bahama  seas 

Beckoned  him  ever  the  dead. 


304  DOMINIQUE    DE    GOURGUES 

Till  spoke,  sore  set  at  last,  De  Gourgues: 
"  Ho,  brothers  brave,  and  have  ye  sailed 

For  gain  of  gold  this  weary  way? 
Heaven's  grace !  but  ye  have  failed ! 

"A  sterner  task  our  God  hath  set; 

In  yon  wild  land  of  flowers 
Our  dead  await  the  trusty  blades 

Shall  cleanse  their  fame  and  ours. 

"  Ye  know  the  tale."     Few  words  they  said 
"  We  are  thine  for  France  to-day !  " 

By  cape  and  beach  and  palmy  isles 
The  avengers  held  their  way. 

The  deed  was  flone,  the  honor  won, 
Nor  land  nor  gain  of  gold  got  they, 

Where  'neath  the  broad  palmetto  leaves 
Their  dead  at  evening  lay. 

The  deed  was  done,  the  honor  won, 
And  o'er  the  gibbet-loads  was  set 

This  legend  grim  for  priests  to  read, 
And,  if  they  could,  forget: 

"  Not  as  to  Spaniards :  murderers  these : 
Ladrones,  robbers,  hanged  I  here, 

Ransom  base  for  the  costly  souls 
Whom  God  and  France  hold  dear." 

How  welcomed  him  that  brave  Rochelle, 
With  cannon  thunder  and  clash  of  bell, 

What  bitter  fate  his  courage  won, 
Some  slender  annals  tell. 


THE    WRECK    OF    THE    EMMELINE          3°5 

No  legend  tells  what  signal  sweet 

Looked  gladness  from  a  woman's  eyes, 

Or  how  she  welcomed  him  who  brought 
Alas !  one  only  prize, — 

A  noble  deed  in  honor  done 

And  the  wreck  of  a  ruined  life. 
Ah,  well  if  I  knew  what  said  the  lips 

Of  the  little  Gascon  wife ! 
1890. 


THE    WRECK    OF    THE    EMMELINE 

THIS  tack  might  fetch  Absecom  bar, 

The  wind  lies  fair  for  the  Dancin'  Jane; 

She  's  good  on  a  wind.     If  we  keep  this  way. 
You  might  talk  with  folk  in  the  land  of  Spain. 

A  tidy  smack  of  a  breeze  it  be; 

Just  hear  it  whistle  'mong  them  dunes ! 
It  ain't  no  more  nor  a  gal  for  strong, — 

Sakes !  but  it  hollers  a  lot  of  tooncs. 

Ye  'd  ought  to  hear  it  October-time 
A-fiddlin'  'mong  them  cat-tails  tall; 

Our  Bill  can  fiddle,  but  'gainst  that  wind 
He  ain't  no  kind  of  a  show  at  all. 

Respectin'  the  wrack  you  want  to  see, 

It 's  yon  away,  set  hard  and  fast 
On  the  outer  bar.     When  tides  is  low 

You  kin  see  a  mawsel  of  rib  and  mast. 


3°6         THE    WRECK    OF    THE    EMMELINE 

Four  there  was  on  us,  wrackers  all, 
Born  and  bred  to  foller  the  sea, 

And  Dad  beside;  that's  him  you  seed 
Las'  night  a-mendin'  them  nets  with  me. 

Waal,  sir,  it  wasn't  no  night  for  talk; 

The  pipes  went  out,  an'  we  stood,  we  four, 
A-starin'  dumb  through  the  rattlin'  panes, 

And  says  Tom,  "  I  'd  as  lief  be  here  ashore." 

The  wust  wind  ever  I  knowed 

Was  swoopin'  across  the  deep, 
An'  the  waves  was  humpin'  as  white  as  snow, 

An'  gallopin'  in  like  frighted  sheep. 

Lord  !  sich  a  wind !     It  tuk  that  sand 
An'  flung  it  squar'  on  the  winder-sash, 

An'  howled  and  mumbled  'mong  the  scrub, 
An'  yelled  like  a  hurt  thing  'cross  the  ma'sh. 

Old  Dad  as  was  sittin'  side  the  fire, 
Jus'  now  an'  agin  he  riz  his  head, 

An'  says  he,  "  God  help  all  folks  at  sea, — 
God  help  'em  livin',  and  bury  'em  dead. 

"  God  help  them  in  smacks  as  sail, 
An'  men  as  v'yage  in  cruisers  tall ; 

God  help  all  as  goes  by  water, 

Big  ship  and  little, —  help  'em  all." 

"  Amen !  "  says  Bill,  jus'  like  it  was  church; 

An'  all  of  a  sudden  says  Joe  to  me, 
"  Hallo !  "  an'  thar  was  a  flash  of  light, 

An'  the  roar  of  a  gun  away  to  sea. 


THE   WRECK    OF   THE    EMMELINE         3°7 

"  An'  it 's  each  for  all !  "  cries  Dad  to  me ; 

"  The  night  ain't  much  of  a  choice  for  sweet." 
So  up  he  jumps  an'  stamps  aroun', 

Jus'  for  to  waken  his  sleepy  feet. 

"  An'  it 's  into  ilers  and  on  with  boots," 
Sings  Dad ;  "  thar  be  n't  no  time  to  spar'. 

Pull  in  y'r  waist-straps.     Hurry  a  bit; 
The  shortest  time  '11  be  long  out  thar." 

I  did  n't  like  it,  or  them  no  more, 

But  roun'  we  scuttles  for  oar  and  ropes, 

An'  out  we  plunged  in  the  old  man's  wake, 
For  we  knowed  as  we  was  thar  only  hopes. 

The  door  druv'  in;  the  cinders  flew; 

The  house,  it  shook;  out  went  the  light; 
The  air  was  thick  with  squandered  sand, 

As  nipt  like  the  sting  of  a  bluefly  bite. 

We  passed  yon  belt  of  holly  and  pine, 

An'  in  among  them  cedar  an'  oak 
We  stood  a  bit  on  the  upper  shore, 

An  stared  an'  listened,  but  no  man  spoke. 

"Whar  lies  she,  Bill?"  roars  Dad  to  me, 
As  down  we  bended.     Then  bruk'  a  roar 

As  follered  a  lane  of  dancin'  light 

That  flashed  and  fluttered  along  the  shore. 

"She's  thar,"  says  Joe;  "I'd  sight  of  her  then; 

She  's  hard  and  high  on  the  outer  bar. 
Nary  a  light,  and  fast  enough, 

And  nary  a  mawsel  of  mast  or  spar." 


308         THE   WRECK   OF   THE   EMMELINE 

Groans  Dad,  "  Good  Lord,  it 's  got  to  be !  " 
Says  Tom,  "  It  ain't  to  be  done,  I  fear." 

Shouts  Joe,  a-laffin'  (he  allus  laffed), 
"  It  ain't  to  be  done  by  standin'  here." 

Waal,  in  she  went,  third  time  of  tryin' — 
"  In  with  a  will,"  laffs  Joe,  in  a  roar, 

Tom  a-cussin'  and  Dad  a-prayin', 

But  spry  enough  with  the  steerin'  oar. 

Five  hours  —  an'  cold.     I  was  clean  played  out. 

"  Give  way,"  shouts  Dad,  "  give  way  thar 

now !  " 
"  Hurray !  "  laffs  Joe.     An'  we  slung  her  along, 

With  a  prayer  to  aft  an'  a  laff  in  the  bow. 

There  was  five  men  glad  when  we  swep*  her  in 
Under  the  lee,  an'  none  too  soon. 

"  Aboard  thar,  mates !  "  shouts  Dad,  an'  the  wind 
Just  howled  like  a  dog  at  full  of  moon. 

"  Up  with  you,  Bill !  "  sung  Dad.     So  I  — 
I  grabbed  for  a  broken  rope  as  hung. 

Gosh !  it  was  stiff  as  an  anchor-stock, 
But  up  I  swarmed,  and  over  I  swung. 

Ice?     She  was  ice  from  stem  to  starn. 

I  gripped  the  rail  an'  sarched  the  wrack, 
An'  cleared  my  eyes,  an'  sarched  agin' 

For  livin'  sign  on  that  slidin'  deck. 

Four  dead  men  in  the  scuppers  lay. 

Stiff  as  steel,  they  was  froze  that  fast; 
An'  one  old  man  was  hangin'  awry, 

Tied  to  the  stump  of  the  broken  mast. 


THE   WRECK   OF    THE   EMMELINE         3°9 

Ice-bound  he  were.     But  he  kinder  smiled, 
A-lookin'  up.     I  was  sort  of  skeered. 

Lord !  thinks  I,  thar  was  many  a  prayer 
Froze  in  the  snow  of  that  orful  beard. 

Thar  was  one  man  lashed  to  the  wheel, 

An'  his  eyes  was  a-starin'  wild, 
An'  thar,  close-snuggled  up  in  his  arms, — 

O  Lord,  sir,  the  pity !  —  a  little  child. 

"  Dead  all,"  says  I,  as  I  lep  to  the  boat. 

"Give  way,"  an'  we  bent  to  the  springin'  oar; 
An'  never  no  word  says  boy  or  Dad, 

Till  we  crashed  full  high  on  the  upper  shore. 

Then  Dad,  he  dropped  for  to  pray, 
But  I  stood  all  a-shake  on  the  sand; 

An'  the  old  man  says,  "  I  could  wish  them  souls 
Was  fetched  ashore  to  the  joyful  land." 

But  Joe,  he  laffs.     Says  Dad,  right  mad, 

"  Shut  up.     Ye  'd  grin  if  ye  went  to  heaven." 

"Why  not?"  says  Joe.     "As  for  this  here  earth, 
It  takes  lots  of  laffin'  to  keep  things  even." 

Ready  about,  an'  mind  for  the  boom; 

Ef  ye  keer  for  to  hold  that  far, 
You  may  see  the  Emmeline,  keel  and  rib, 

Stuck  fast  an'  firm  on  the  outer  bar. 

NEWPORT,  October  1891. 


310  A    PSALM    OF   THE   WATERS 


A   PSALM   OF   THE   WATERS 

Lo !  this  is  a  psalm  of  the  waters. — 

The  wavering,  wandering  waters: 

With  languages  learned  in  the  forest, 

With  secrets  of  earth's  lonely  caverns, 

The  mystical  waters  go  by  me 

On  errands  of  love  and  of  beauty, 

On  embassies  friendly  and  gentle, 

With  shimmer  of  brown  and  of  silver. 

In  pools  of  dark  quiet  they  ponder, 

Where  the  birch,  and  the  elm,  and  the  maple 

Are  dreams  in  the  soul  of  their  stillness. 

In  eddying  spirals  they  loiter, 

For  touch  of  the  fern-plumes  they  linger, 

Caress  the  red  mesh  of  the  pine-roots, 

And  quench  the  strong  thirst  of  the  leafage 

That  high  overhead  with  its  shadows 

Requites  the  soft  touch  of  their  giving 

Like  him  whose  supreme  benediction 

Make  glad  for  love's  service  instinctive 

The  heart  of  the  Syrian  woman. 

O  company,  stately  and  gracious, 

That  wait  the  sad  axe  on  the  hillside ! 

My  kinsmen  since  far  in  the  ages, 

We  tossed,  you  and  I,  as  dull  atoms, 

The  sport  of  the  wind  and  the  water. 

We  are  as  a  greater  has  made  us, 

You  less  and  I  more;  yet  forever 

The  less  is  the  giver,  and  thankful, 

The  guest  of  your  quivering  shadows, 


A    PSALM    OF   THE   WATERS  311 

I  welcome  the  counselling  voices 
That  haunt  the  dim  aisles  of  the  forest. 


Lo,  this  is  a  psalm  of  the  waters 
That  wake  in  us  yearnings  prophetic, 
That  cry  in  the  wilderness  lonely 
With  meanings  for  none  but  the  tender. 
I  hear  in  the  rapids  below  me 
Gay  voices  of  little  ones  playing, 
And  echoes  of  boisterous  laughter 
From  grim  walls  of  resonant  granite. 
'T  is  gone  —  it  is  here  —  this  wild  music! 
Untamed  by  the  ages,  as  gladsome 
As  when,  from  the  hands  of  their  Maker, 
In  wild  unrestraint  the  swift  waters 
Leapt  forth  to  the  bountiful  making 
Of  brook  and  of  river  and  ocean. 
I  linger,  I  wonder,  I  listen. 
Alas !  is  it  I  who  interpret 
The  cry  of  the  masterful  north  wind, 
The  hum  of  the  rain  in  the  hemlock, 
As  chorals  of  joy  or  of  sadness, 
To  match  the  mere  moods  of  my  being? 
Alas  for  the  doubt  and  the  wonder ! 
Alas  for  the  strange  incompleteness 
That  limits  with  boundaries  solemn 
The  questioning  soul !     Yet  forever 
I  know  that  these  choristers  ancient 
Have  touch  of  my  heart;  and  alas,  too, 
That  never  was  love  in  its  fulness 
Told  all  the  great  soul  of  its  loving ! 
I  know,  too,  the  years,  that  remorseless 
Have  hurt  me  with  sorrow,  bring  ever 


312  A    PSALM    OF    THE    WATERS 

More  near  for  my  help  the  quick-healing, 

The  infinite  comfort  of  nature; 

For  surely  the  childhood  that  enters 

This  heaven  of  wood  and  of  water 

Is  won  with  gray  hairs,  in  the  nearing 

That  home  ever  open  to  childhood. 

And  you,  you  my  brothers,  who  suffer 
In  serfdom  of  labor  and  sorrow, 
What  gain  have  your  wounds,  that  forever 
Man  bridges  with  semblance  of  knowledge 
The  depths  he  can  never  illumine? 
Or  binds  for  his  service  the  lightning, 
Or  prisons  the  steam  of  the  waters? 
What  help  has  it  brought  to  the  weeper? 
How  lessened  the  toil  of  the  weary? 
Alas !  since  at  evening,  deserted, 
Job  sat  in  his  desolate  anguish, 
The  world  has  grown  wise;  but  the  mourner 
Still  weeps  and  will  weep;  and  what  helping 
He  hath  from  his  God  or  his  fellow 
Eludes  the  grave  sentinel  reason, 
Steals  in  at  the  heart's  lowly  portal, 
And  helps,  but  will  never  be  questioned. 
Yea,  then,  let  us  take  what  these  give  us, 
And  ask  not  to  know  why  the  murmur 
Of  winds  in  the  pine-tree  has  power 
To  comfort  the  hurt  of  life's  battle, 
To  help  when  our  dearest  are  helpless. 
Lo,  here  stands  the  mother.     She  speaketh 
As  when  at  his  tent  door  the  Arab 
Calls,  Welcome !  in  language  we  know  not. 
Cries,  Enter,  and  share  with  thy  servant! 
1890. 


AFTER    A    STORM    ON    THE   RISTIGOUCHE      3X3 


EVENING,    AFTER    A    STORM    ON    THE 
RISTIGOUCHE  RIVER 

A    MOOD 

THE  air  is  cool;  a  mist  hangs  low 

Above  the  wild  waves'  gleaming  flow, 

An  earth-born  cloud,  a  prisoner  fair 

Held  captive  from  the  upper  air. 

Its  life  is  brief;  't  is  gone,  unseen 

As  souls  set  free.     The  blue  serene 

Shall  claim  it,  as,  of  heaven's  race, 

It  speeds  a  viewless  way  through  space. 

As  souls  set  free !     Oh,  memories  fair 

That  substance  of  my  boyhood  were; 

What  subtle  process  of  the  brain 

Called  that  dear  company  again: 

Those  honest  eyes  of  tranquil  gray, 

That  heart  which  knew  but  honor's  way, 

And  one,  the  strong,  the  saint  of  pain, — 

That  visage  smiles  for  me  again, 

Laughs  as  it  laughed  when  life  was  here, 

Smiles  as  it  smiled  when  death  was  near. 

What  thought-linked  sweetness  of  the  hour 

Bade  memory's  folded  buds  to  flower? 

The  dim  horizons  of  the  mind 

In  vain  I  search,  nor  answer  find. 

The  sombre  woods  make  no  reply; 

The  busy  river,  rambling  by, 

Is  silent;  silent  is  the  sky. 

And  yet  to-day  this  nature  dear 

Than  human  help  seems  far  more  near; 


3H       AFTER   A    STORM    ON    THE   RISTIGOUCHE 

And  closer  to  my  listening  soul 

The  rhythms  of  the  rapid  roll 

Than  any  words  of  human  tongue, 

Than  any  song  of  poet  sung. 

Alas,  the  bounding  walls  of  time 

Still  hem  us  in ;  the  poet's  rhyme, 

The  brain,  the  air,  the  river's  flow, 

The  frank  blue  sky,  the  waves  below, 

Refuse  to  tell  us  half  they  know. 

In  vain  our  search,  in  vain  our  cries, 

Our  dearest  loves  lack  some  replies; 

And  thought  as  infinite  as  space 

May  never  tell  us  face  to  face, 

Though  sought  beneath  death's  awful  shroud, 

The  secrets  of  one  flitting  cloud, 

All  of  a  monad's  story  brief, 

The  history  of  a  single  leaf. 

Ah,  mystery  of  mysteries, 

To  know  if  under  other  skies 

Shall  Nature  wait  with  open  hand, 

To  hold  her  secrets  at  command. 


O'er  other  hills  and  far  away 

The  red  scourge  of  the  lightning  flies; 

The  thunder  roar  of  smitten  clouds 

Reverberant  in  distance  dies; 

The  western  sky,  an  arch  of  green, 

Fades  o'er  me,  and  my  still  canoe 

Floats  on  a  mystic  sea  of  gold 

Flecked  thick  with  waves  of  sapphire  blue; 

The  silent  counsels  of  the  night 

Float  downward  with  the  failing  light; 


AFTER   A    STORM    ON    THE   RISTIGOUCHE       3*5 

Strange  whispers  from  the  darkened  stream 

Rise  like  the  voices  of  a  dream; 

The  joy  of  mystery  gathers  near, 

The  joy  that  is  almost  a  fear. 

Speechless  the  infinite  of  space, 

Star-peopled,  looks  upon  my  face, 

The  patience  of  heaven's  planet  gaze, 

That  bids  me  wait  for  death's  amaze, 

Or  for  the  death  of  deaths  to  tell 

The  secrets  Nature  guards  so  well. 

Lo,  darkness  that  is  substance  falls 

Between  the  mountain's  nearing  walls, 

The  sky  drops  down,  and  to  my  eye 

The  watery  levels  closer  lie, 

Till  wood  and  wave  and  mountain  fade 

'Neath  the  dear  mother's  cloak  of  shade. 

She  brings  for  me  the  scented  balm 

Her  spruce-trees  yield ;  a  sacred  calm 

Falls  softly  on  my  kneeling  heart. 

"  Peace,  child,"  she  whispers,  "  mine  thou  art. 

Lo,  in  my  darkness  thou  hast  found 

Content  my  daylight  does  not  bound; 

My  silence  to  thy  soul  doth  preach ; 

Night  unto  night  still  uttereth  speech, 

And  the  black  night  of  death  shall  be 

As  eloquent  of  truth  to  thee." 

1886. 


3*6  ELK    COUNTY 


RAIN  IN  CAMP 

THE  camp-fire  smoulders  and  will  not  burn, 
And  a  sulky  smoke  from  the  blackened  logs 
Lazily  swirls  through  the  dank  wood  caves; 
And  the  laden  leaves  with  a  quick  relief 
Let  fall  their  loads,  as  the  pool  beyond 
Leaps  'neath  the  thin  gray  lash  of  the  rain, 
And  is  builded  thick  with  silver  bells. 
But  I  lie  on  my  back  in  vague  despair, 
Trying  it  over  thrice  and  again, 
To  see  if  my  words  will  say  the  thing. 
But  the  sodden  moss,  and  the  wet  black  wood, 
And  the  shining  curves  of  the  dancing  leaves, 
The  drip  and  drop,  and  tumble  and  patter, 
The  humming  roar  in  the  sturdy  pines, 
Alas,  shall  there  no  man  paint  or  tell. 

1870. 

ELK  COUNTY 

FROM  lands  of  the  elk  and  the  pine-tree, 
Of  hemlock  and  whitewood  and  maple, 
You  ask  me  to  write  you  a  lyric 
Shall  thrill  with  the  cries  of  the  forest, 
And  flow  like  the  sap  of  the  maple, — 
The  rich  yellow  blood  of  the  maple, 
That  hath  such  a  wild,  lusty  sweetness, 
Such  a  taste  of  the  wilderness  in  it. 
And  surely  't  were  pleasant  to  summon 


ELK    COUNTY  31? 

The  days  which  so  lately  have  vanished, 
The  friends  who  were  part  of  their  pleasure. 
Right  cheery  for  me,  in  the  city, 
To  think  once  again  of  the  sunsets 
We  watched  from  the  crest  of  the  hilltop, 
Alone  on  the  stumps  in  the  clearing; 
When  slowly  the  forms  of  the  mountains, 
Our  own  hills,  our  loved  Alleghanies, 
Grew  hazy  and  distant  and  solemn, 
Cloaked  each  with  the  shade  of  his  neighbor; 
Like  rigid  old  Puritans  scorning 
The  passion  and  riot  of  color, 
Of  yellow  and  purple  and  scarlet, 
Which  haunt  the  gay  court  of  the  sunset, 
Where  Eve,  like  a  wild  Cinderella, 
Awaits  the  gray  fairy  of  twilight. 
Sweet,  ever,  to  think  of  the  forests, 
Their  cool,  woody  fragrance  delicious; 
To  think  of  the  camp-fires  we  builded 
To  baffle  those  terrible  pungies; 
To  think  how  we  wandered,  bewildered 
With  wood-dreams  and  delicate  fancies 
Unknown  to  the  life  of  the  city. 
To  tread  but  those  cushioning  mosses; 
To  lie,  almost  float,  on  the  fern-beds; 
To  feel  the  crisp  crush  of  the  foot  on 
The  mouldering  logs  of  the  windfall, 
Were  things  to  be  held  in  remembrance. 
Dost  recall  how  we  lingered  to  listen 
The  sound  of  the  wood-robin's  bugle, 
Or  bent  the  witch-hopple  to  guide  us, 
As  one  folds  the  page  he  is  reading, 
And  felt,  as  we  peered  through  the  stillness, 


ELK    COUNTY 

Through  armies  and  legions  of  tree-trunks, 
Such  solemn  and  brooding  sensations 
As  told  of  the  birth  of  religions, 
As  whispered  how  men  grow  to  Druids 
When  the  fly-wheel  of  work  is  arrested, 
And  they  live  the  still  life  of  the  forest? 
Ay,  here  in  the  face  of  the  woodman, 
You  see  how  the  woods  have  been  preaching, 
As  he  leans  on  the  logs  of  his  cabin 
To  watch  the  prim  city-folk  coming 
O'er  the  chips,  and  the  twigs,  and  the  stubble, 
Through  the  fire-scarred  stumps,  and  the  hem 
locks 

His  axe  hath  so  ruthlessly  girdled. 
Ay,  he  too  has  learned  in  the  forest, 
One  half  of  him  Nimrod  and  slayer, 
Unsparing,  enduring,  and  tireless, 
In  wait  for  the  deer  at  the  salt-lick; 
Yet  one  stronger  half  of  his  nature  — 
This  rough  and  bold  out-of-door  nature, 
Hath  touches  of  sadness  upon  it, 
And  is  grown  to  the  ways  of  the  forest, 
Till  wildness  and  softness  together 
Are  one  in  the  sap  of  his  being. 

Right  pleasant  it  were,  friend  and  lady, 
To  tell  you  some  tale  of  the  woodland; 
To  hear  the  faint  voice  of  tradition, 
Of  childish  and  simple  conceptions, 
And  find  in  their  half-spoken  meanings 
Some  thought  all  the  nations  have  muttered 
In  the  parable  tongues  of  their  childhood. 
Alas  for  the  tale  and  the  writer ! 


ELK    COUNTY  3X9 

The  land  has  no  story  to  tell  us, — 

No  voice  save  the  Clarion's  waters, 

No  song  save  the  murm'rous  confusion 

Of  winds  gone  astray  in  the  pine-tops, 

Or  the  roar  of  the  rain  on  the  hemlocks; — 

No  record,  no  sign,  not  a  word  of 

The  lords  of  the  axe  and  the  rifle, 

Who  camped  by  the  smooth  Alleghany, 

And  blazed  the  first  tree  on  the  mountain. 

Yet  here,  even  here  in  the  forest, — 

The  soul-calming  deep  of  the  forest, 

Where  cat-birds  are  noisy  and  dauntless, 

And  deft  little  miserly  squirrels 

Are  hoarding  the  beech-nuts  for  winter; 

Where  rattlesnakes  charm,  and  the  hoot-owl 

By  night  sounds  his  murderous  war-pipe, — 

Yes,  here  in  the  last  home  of  Nature, 

Where  the  greenness  that  swells  o'er  the  hillock 

Is  pink  with  the  blossoming  laurel, 

The  wants  of  the  city  still  haunt  us, 

When  busy  blue  axes  are  ringing, 

And  totter  the  kings  of  the  mountain. 

Ah,  well  you  recall,  I  can  fancy, 

The  morn  we  looked  down  on  the  valley 

That  bears  the  proud  name  of  the  battle, 

Itself  a  fair  field  for  the  winning; 

Recall,  too,  the  frank  speech  which  told  us 

Who  felled  the  first  tree  in  the  valley 

Where  now  the  red  heifers  are  browsing, 

And  reapers  are  swinging  their  cradles, 

And  fat  grow  the  stacks  with  the  harvest. 

Canst  see,  too,  the  dam  and  the  mill-pond, 

The  trees  in  the  dark  amber  water, 


320  A    CAMP    IN    THREE    LIGHTS 

Where  thousands  of  pine  logs  are  tethered, 
With  maple  and  black  birch  and  cherry? 
Canst  hear,  as  I  hear,  the  gay  hum  of 
The  bright,  whizzing  saw  in  the  steam-mill, 
Its  up-and-down  old-fashioned  neighbor 
Singing,  "  Go  it !  "  and  "  Go  it !  "  and  "  Go  it !  " 
As  it  whirrs  through  the  heart  of  the  pine-tree, 
And  spouts  out  the  saw-dust,  and  filleth 
The  air  with  its  resinous  odors? 
Ay,  gnaw  at  them  morning  and  evening, 
Thou  hungry  old  dog  of  a  sawmill ! 
The  planks  thou  art  shaping  so  deftly 
Shall  ring  with  the  tramp  of  the  raftsmen, 
Shall  drift  on  the  shallow  Ohio, 
Shall  build  thy  fair  homes,  Cincinnati, 
Shall  see  the  gay  steamers  go  by  them, 
Shall  float  on  the  broad  Mississippi, 
Shall  floor  the  rough  cabins  of  Kansas. 

And  here  is  a  tale  for  the  poet, — 
A  story  of  Saxon  endurance, 
A  story  of  work  and  completion, 
A  legend  of  rough-handed  labor 
As  wild  as  the  runes  of  the  fiords. 

1858. 

A  CAMP  IN  THREE  LIGHTS 

AGAINST  the  darkness  sharply  lined 

Our  still  white  tents  gleamed  overhead, 

And  dancing  cones  of  shadow  cast 

When  sudden  flashed  the  camp-fire  red, 


A    CAMP    IN    THREE    LIGHTS  321 

Where  fragrant  hummed  the  moist  swamp-spruce, 
And  tongues  unknown  the  cedar  spoke, 

While  half  a  century's  silent  growth 
Went  up  in  cheery  flame  and  smoke. 

Pile  on  the  logs !     A  flickering  spire 
Of  ruby  flame  the  birch-bark  gives, 

And  as  we  track  its  leaping  sparks, 

Behold  in  heaven  the  North-light  lives ! 

An  arch  of  deep,  supremest  blue, 

A  band  above  of  silver  shade, 
Where,  like  the  frost-work's  crystal  spears, 

A  thousand  lances  grow  and  fade, 

Or  shiver,  touched  with  palest  tints 
Of  pink  and  blue,  and  changing  die, 

Or  toss  in  one  triumphant  blaze 
Their  golden  banners  up  the  sky, 

With  faint,  quick,  silken  murmurings, 

A  noise  as  of  an  angel's  flight, 
Heard  like  the  whispers  of  a  dream 

Across  the  cool,  clear  Northern  night. 

Our  pipes  are  out,  the  camp-fire  fades, 

The  wild  auroral  ghost-lights  die, 
And  stealing  up  the  distant  wood 

The  moon's  white  spectre  floats  on  high, 

And,  lingering,  sets  in  awful  light 
A  blackened  pine-tree's  ghastly  cross, 

Then  swiftly  pays  in  silver  white 
The  faded  fire,  the  aurora's  loss. 

1870. 


322  EVENING    STORM NIPIGON 


LAKE  NIPIGON 

HIGH -SHOULDERED  and  ruddy  and  sturdy, 
Like  droves  of  pre-Adamite  monsters, 
The  vast  mounded  rocks  of  red  basalt 
Lie  basking  round  Nipigon's  waters; 
And  still  lies  the  lake,  as  if  fearing 
To  trouble  their  centuried  slumber; 
And  heavy  o'er  lake  and  in  heaven 
A  dim  veil  of  smoke  tells  of  forests 
Ablaze  in  the  far  lonely  Northland: 
And  over  us,  blood-red  and  sullen, 
The  sun  shines  on  gray-shrouded  islands, 
And  under  us,  blood-red  and  sullen 
The  sun  in  the  dark  umber  water 
Looks  up  at  the  gray,  murky  heaven, 
While  one  lonely  loon  on  the  water 
Is  wailing  his  mate,  and  beside  us 
Two  shaggy-haired  Chippewa  children 
In  silence  watch  sadly  the  white  man. 

1871. 


EVENING  STORM  — NIPIGON 

UPON  the  beach,  with  low,  quick,  mournful  sob, 
The  weary  waters  shudder  to  our  feet; 
And  far  beyond  the  sunset's  golden  light, 
Forever  brighter  in  its  lessening  span, 
Shares  not  the  sadness  of  yon  dark  wood-wall, 


NOONDAY    WOODS NIPIGON  323 

Where  green  and  noiseless  deeps  of  shadow  rest 
In  growing  gloom  'twixt  golden  lake  and  sky. 
Fast  fades  the  lessening  day,  and  far  beneath 
The  tamarack  shivers  and  the  cedar's  cone 
Uneasy  sways,  while  fitful  tremors  stir 
The  tattered  livery  of  the  ragged  birch; 
And  over  all  the  arch  of  heaven  is  wild 
With  tumbled  clouds,   where   swift   the   lightning's 

lance 

Gleams  ruby  red  and  thunder-echoes  roll; 
Far,  far  below  —  sweet  as  the  dream  of  hope 
What  time  despair  is  nearest  —  lies  the  lake. 
Fast  comes  the  storm;  spiked  black  with  pattering 

rain, 

The  darkened  water  gleams  with  bells  of  foam. 
Fast  comes  the  storm,  till  over  lake  and  sky, 
O'er  yellow  lake  and  ever-yellowing  sky, 
Cruel  and  cold,  the  gray  storm-twilights  rest; 
And  so  the  day  before  its  time  is  dead. 

1870. 


NOONDAY  WOODS  — NIPIGON 

BETWEEN  thin  fingers  of  the  pine 

The  fluid  gold  of  sunlight  slips, 
And  through  the  tamarack's  gray-green  fringe 

Upon  the  level  birch  leaves  drips. 

Through  all  the  still,  moist  forest  air 

Slow  trickles  down  the  soft,  warm  sheen, 

And  flecks  the  branching  wood  of  ferns 
With  tender  tints  of  pallid  green, 


324  NOONDAY   WOODS — NIPIGON 

To  rest  where  close  to  mouldered  trunks 
The  red  and  purple  berries  lie, 

Where  tiny  jungles  of  the  moss 
Their  tropic  forests  rear  on  high. 

Fast,  fast  asleep  the  woodland  rests, 
Stirs  not  the  tamarack's  topmost  sheaf, 

And  slow  the  subtle  sunlight  glides 
With  noiseless  step  from  leaf  to  leaf. 

And  lo,  he  comes !  the  fairy  prince, 
The  heir  of  richer,  softer  strands: 

A  summer  guest  of  sterner  climes, 
He  moves  across  the  vassal  lands. 

And  lo,  he  comes !  the  fairy  prince, 
The  joyous  sweet  southwestern  breeze: 

He  bounds  across  the  dreaming  lake, 
And  bends  to  kiss  the  startled  trees, 

Till  all  the  woodland  wakes  to  life, 

The  pheasant  chirps,  the  chipmunks  cry, 

And  scattered  flakes  of  golden  light 
Athwart  the  dark  wood-spaces  fly. 

Ah,  but  a  moment,  and  away ! 

The  fair,  false  prince  has  kissed  and  fled 
No  more  the  wood  shall  feel  his  touch, 

No  more  shall  know  his  joyous  tread. 

1872. 


AFTER    SUNSET  325 


AFTER    SUNSET  — LAKE    WEELOKENE- 
BAKOK 

AT  twilight  Azescohos  standeth 
With  domes  that  are  builded  of  color: 
Its  deep-wrinkled  strata  and  boulders, 
Its  sombre-leaved  greenness  of  noonday, 
Fade,  lost  in  the  blue  misty  splendor 
That  seems  like  the  soul  of  a  color; 
While  far,  far  away  to  the  eastward 
One  vast  fading  glory  of  scarlet  — 
A  color  that  seems  as  if  living  — 
Possesses  the  sky  like  a  passion, 
And  higher  and  higher  in  heaven 
Fades  out  in  the  soft  bluish  greenness 
That  climbs  to  the  zenith  above  us. 
Below,  far  below,  as  if  thinking, 
At  rest  lies  the  sensitive  lake;  and 
Like  one  who  sings  but  to  her  own  heart 
Such  thoughts  as  a  loving  lip  whispers, 
Thus  deep  in  the  waters  are  pictured 
The  beauty  of  sunset  and  hillside. 
»        For  the  blue  that  was  blue  on  the  mountain, 
Seen  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  water, 
Hath  the  touch  of  some  blessing  upon  it, — 
Some  strangeness  of  purity  in  it, 
Like  color  that  shall  be  in  heaven. 
This  water-held  vision  of  sunset, 
Ablaze  in  the  depths  of  the  darkness, 
Is  it  but  for  the  sight?     Canst  not  hear  it, 
This  prophet  of  color,  to  tell  us 


326  THE   ROMAN    CAMPAGNA 

Of  what  may  be  yet,  when  the  senses 
Awaken  to  lordlier  being, 
And  the  thought  of  the  blind  man  is  ours : 
When  colors  unearthly  men  know  not 
Shall  float  from  the  trumpets  of  angels, 
And  tints  of  the  glory  of  heaven 
Shall  be  for  us  color  and  music? 

1871. 


THE   ROMAN    CAMPAGNA 

How  gentle  here  is  Nature's  mood !     She  lays 
A  woman-hand  upon  the  troubled  heart, 
Bidding  the  world  away  and  time  depart, 
While  the  brief  minutes  swoon  to  endless  days 
Filled  full  of  sad,  inconstant  thoughtfulness. 

Behold  't  is  eventide.     Dun  cattle  stand 

Drowsed  in  the  misted  grasses.     From  the  hollows 

deep, 

Dim  veils,  adrift,  o'er  arch  and  tower  sweep, 
Casting  a  dreary  doubt  along  the  land, 
Weighting  the  twilight  with  some  vague  distress. 

Transient  and  subtle,  not  to  thought  more  near  • 
Than  spirit  is  to  flesh,  about  me  rise 
Dim  memories,  long  lost  to  love's  sad  eyes; 
Now  are  they  wandering  shadows,  strange  and  drear, 
That  from  their  natal  substance  far  have  strayed. 

The  witches  of  the  mind  possess  the  time, 

And  cry,  "  Behold  thy  dead !  "     They  come,  they 
pass; 


THE    ROMAN    CAMPAGNA  327 

We  yearn  to  give  them  feature,  face.     Alas ! 
Love  hath  no  morn  for  memory's  failing  prime; 
What  once  was  sweet  with  truth  is  but  a  shade. 

The  ghosts  of  nameless  sorrow,  joy,  despair, 
Emotions  that  have  no  remembered  source, 
Love-waifs  from  other  worlds,  hope,  fear,  remorse 
Born  of  some  vision's  crime,  wail  through  the  air, 
Crying,  We  were  and  are  not ! —  that  is  all. 

Yet  sweet  the  indecisive  evening  hour 

That  hath  of  earth  the  least.     Unreal  as  dreams 
Dreamed  within  dreams,  and  ever  further,  seems 
The  sound  of  human  toil,  while  grass  and  flower 
Bend  where  the  mercy  of  the  dew  doth  fall. 

Strange  mysteries  of  expectation  wait 
Above  the  grave-mounds  of  the  storied  space, 
Where,  buried,  lie  a  nation's  strength  and  grace, 

And  the  sad  joys  of  Rome's  imperious  state 

That  perished  of  its  insolent  excess. 

A  dull,  gray  shroud  o'er  this  vast  burial  rests, 

Is  deathly  still,  or  seems  to  rise  and  fall, 

As  on  a  dear  one,  dead,  the  moveless  pall 

Doth  cheat  the  heart  with  stir  of  her  white  breasts, 

Mocking  the  troubled  hour  with  worse  distress. 

A  deathful  languor  holds  the  twilight  mist, 
Unearthly  colors  drape  the  Alban  hills, 
A  dull  malaria  the  spirit  fills; 
Death  and  decay  all  beauty  here  have  kissed, 
Pledging  the  land  to  sorrowing  loveliness. 

ROME,  May  1891. 


328  THE    GRAVE   OF    KEATS 


THE    GRAVE    OF    KEATS 

THE    PROTESTANT    CEMETERY    AT    ROME 

"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water." 

FAIR  little  city  of  the  pilgrim  dead, 

Dear  are  thy  marble  streets,  thy  rosy  lanes : 

Easy  it  seems  and  natural  here  to  die, 

And  death  a  mother,  who  with  tender  care 

Doth  lay  to  sleep  her  ailing  little  ones. 

Old  are  these  graves,  and  they  who,  mournfully, 

Saw  dust  to  dust  return,  themselves  are  mourned ; 

Yet,  in  green  cloisters  of  the  cypress  shade, 

Full-choired  chants  the  fearless  nightingale 

Ancestral  songs  learned  when  the  world  was  young. 

Sing  on,  sing  ever  in  thy  breezy  homes ; 

Toss  earthward  from  the  white  acacia  bloom 

The  mingled  joy  of  fragrance  and  of  song; 

Sing  in  the  pure  security  of  bliss. 

These  dead  concern  thee  not,  nor  thee  the  fear 

That  is  the  shadow  of  our  earthly  loves. 

And  me  thou  canst  not  comfort;  tender  hearts 

Inherit  here  the  anguish  of  the  doubt 

Writ  on  this  gravestone.     He,  at  last,  I  trust, 

Serenity  of  sure  attainment  knows. 

The  night  falls,  and  the  darkened  verdure  starred 

With  pallid  roses  shuts  the  world  away. 

Sad  wandering  souls  of  song,  frail  ghosts  of  thought 

That  voiceless  died,  the  massing  shadows  haunt, 

Troubling  the  heart  with  unfulfilled  delight. 

The  moon  is  listening  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 


ROMA 

And,  like  the  airy  march  of  mighty  wings, 
The  rhythmic  throb  of  stately  cadences 
Inthralls  the  ear  with  some  high-measured  verse, 
Where  ecstasies  of  passion-nurtured  words 
For  great  thoughts  find  a  home,  and  fill  the  mind 
With  echoes  of  divinely  purposed  hopes 
That  wore  on  earth  the  death-pall  of  despair. 
Night  darkens  round  me.     Never  more  in  life 
May  I,  companioned  by  the  friendly  dead, 
Walk  in  this  sacred  fellowship  again; 
Therefore,  thou  silent  singer  'neath  the  grass, 
Still  sing  to  me  those  sweeter  songs  unsung, 
"  Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone," 
Caressing  thought  with  wonderments  of  phrase 
Such  as  thy  springtide  rapture  knew  to  win. 
Ay,  sing  to  me  thine  unborn  summer  songs, 
And  the  ripe  autumn  lays  that  might  have  been; 
Strong  wine  of  fruit  mature,  whose  flowers  alone  we 
know. 

ROME,  May  1891. 


ROMA 

RIPE  hours  there  be  that  do  anticipate 
The  heritage  of  death,  and  bid  us  see, 
As  from  the  vantage  of  eternity, 

The  shadow-symbols  of  historic  fate. 

As  o'er  some  Alpine  summit's  lonely  steep, 
Blinding  and  terrible  with  spears  of  light, 
Hurling  the  snows  from  many  a  shaken  height, 

The  storm-clad  spirits  of  the  mountain  sweep, — 


33°  ROMA 

Thus,  in  the  solitude  where  broodeth  thought, 
Torn  from  rent  chasms  of  the  soundless  past, 
Go  by  me,  as  if  borne  upon  the  blast, 

The  awful  forms  which  time  and  man  have  wrought. 

Swift  through  the  gloom  each  mournful  chariot  rolls, 
Dim  shapes  of  empire  urge  the  flying  steeds, 
Featured  with  man's  irrevocable  deeds, 

Robed  with  the  changeful  passions  of  men's  souls. 

Ethereal  visions  pass  serene  in  prayer, 
Their  eyes  aglow  with  sacrificial  light; 
Phantoms  of  creeds  long  dead,  their  garments 
bright, 

Drip  red  with  blood  of  torture  and  despair. 

In  such  an  hour  my  spirit  did  behold 

A  woman  wonderful.     Unnumbered  years 
Left  in  her  eyes  the  beauty  born  of  tears, 

And  full  they  were  of  fatal  stories  old. 

The  trophies  of  her  immemorial  reign 

The  shadowy  great  of  eld  beside  her  bore; 
A  broidery  of  ancient  song  she  wore, 

And  the  glad  muses  held  her  regal  train. 

Still  hath  she  kingdom  o'er  the  souls  of  men  ; 

Dear  is  she  always  in  her  less  estate. 

The  sad,  the  gay,  the  thoughtful,  on  her  wait, 
Praising  her  evermore  with  tongue  and  pen. 

Stately  her  ways  and  sweet,  and  all  her  own; 
As  one  who  has  forgotten  time,  she  lives, 


VENICE  331 

Loves,  loses,  lures  anew,  and  ever  gives, — 
She  who  all  misery  and  all  joy  hath  known. 

If  thou  wouldst  see  her,  as  the  twilight  fails, 
Go  forth  along  the  ancient  street  of  tombs, 
And  when  the  purple  shade  divinely  glooms 

High  o'er  the  Alban  hills,  and  night  prevails, 

If  then  she  is  not  with  thee  while  the  light 
Glows  over  roof  and  column,  tower  and  dome, 
And  the  dead  stir  beneath  thy  feet,  and  Rome 

Lies  in  the  solemn  keeping  of  the  night, — 

If  then  she^be  not  thine,  not  thine  the  lot 
Of  those  some  angel  rescues  for  an  hour 
From  earth's  mean  limitations,  granting  power 

To  see  as  man  may  see  when  time  is  not. 

ROME,  May  1891. 


VENICE 

I  AM  Venezia,  that  Sad  Magdalen, 

Who  with  her  lovers'  arms  the  turbaned  East 
Smote,  and  through  lusty  centuries  of  gain 

Lived  a  wild  queen  of  battle  and  of  feast. 
I  netted,  in  gold  meshes  of  my  hair, 

The  great  of  soul ;  painter  and  poet,  priest, 
Bent  at  my  will  with  picture,  song,  and  prayer, 
And  ever  love  of  me  their  fame  increased, 

Till  I,  queen,  became  the  slave  of  slaves, 

And,  like  the  ghost-kings  of  the  Umbrian  plain, 

Saw  from  my  centuries  torn,  as  from  their  graves, 


332  THE   DECAY    OF    VENICE 

The  priceless  jewels  of  my  haughty  reign. 

Gone  are  my  days  of  gladness;  now  in  vain 
I  hurt  the  tender  with  my  speechless  pain. 

VENICE,  June  1891. 


VENICE   TO    ITALY 

O  ITALY,  my  fateful  mistress-land, 
That,  like  Delilah,  won  with  deathful  bliss 
Each  conquering  foe  who  wooed  thy  wanton  kiss, 

And  sheared  thy  lovers'  strength  with  certain  hand, 

And  gave  them  to  Philistia's  bonds  of  vice; 
Smiling  to  see  the  strong  limbs  waste  away, 
The  manly  vigor  crippled  by  decay, 

Usurious  years  exact  the  minute's  price. 

Ah !  when  my  great  were  greatest,  ever  glad, 

I  thanked  them  with  the  hope  of  nobler  deeds. 
Statesman  and  poet,  painter,  sculptor,  knight. — 

These  my  dear  lovers  were  ere  days  grew  sad, 

And  them  I  taught  how  mightily  exceeds 
All  other  love  the  love  that  holds  God's  light. 

VENICE,  June  1891. 


THE    DECAY    OF    VENICE 

THE  glowing  pageant  of  my  story  lies, 
A  shaft  of  light,  across  the  stormy  years, 
When,  'mid  the  agony  of  blood  and  tears, 

Or  pope  or  kaiser  won  the  mournful  prize, 


PISA:  THE  DUOMO  333 

Till  I,  the  fearless  child  of  ocean,  heard 

The  step  of  doom,  and  trembling  to  my  fall, 
Remorseful  knew  that  I  had  seen  unstirred 

Proud  Freedom's  death,  the  tyrant's  festival; 
Whilst  that  Italia  which  was  yet  to  be, 

And  is,  and  shall  be,  sat,  a  virgin  pure, 

High  over  Umbria  on  the  mountain  slopes, 

And  saw  the  failing  fires  of  liberty 

Fade  on  the  chosen  shrine  she  deemed  secure, 
When  died  for  many  a  year  man's  noblest  hopes. 

VENICE,  June  1891. 


PISA:    THE    DUOMO 

Lo,  this  is  like  a  song  writ  long  ago, 

Born  of  the  easy  strength  of  simpler  days, 
Filled  with  the  life  of  man,  his  joy,  his  praise, 

Marriage  and  childhood,  love,  and  sin,  and  woe, 

Defeat  and  victory,  and  all  men  know 
Of  passionate  remorses,  and  the  stays 
That  help  the  weary  on  life's  rugged  ways. 

A  dreaming  seraph  felt  this  beauty  grow 

In  sleep's  pure  hour,  and  with  joy  grown  bold 

Set  the  fair  crystal  in  the  thought  of  man; 

And  Time,  with  antique  tints  of  ivory  wan, 
And  gentle  industries  of  rain  and  light, 

Its  stones  rejoiced,  and  o'er  them  crumbled  gold 
Won  from  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 

PISA,  May  1891. 


334  AFTER   RUYSDAEL 


THE   VESTAL'S    DREAM 

AH,  Venus,  white-limbed  mother  of  delight, 

Why  shouldst  thou  tease  her  with  a  dream  so  dear  ? 

Winged  tenderness  of  kisses,  hovering  near, 
Her  gentle  longings  cheat.     Forbidden  sight 
Of  eager  eyes  doth  through  the  virgin  night 

Perplex  her  innocence  with  cherished  fear. 

O  cruel  thou,  with  sweets  to  ripen  here 
In  wintry  cloisters  what  can  know  but  blight. 

Wilt  leave  her  now  to  scorn?    The  lictors'  blows 
To-morrow  shall  be  merciless.     The  light 
Dies  on  the  altar !     Nay,  swift  through  the  night, 

Comes  pitiful  the  queen  of  young  desire, 

That  reddened  in  a  dream  this  chaste  white  rose, 

And  lights  with  silver  torch  the  fallen  fire. 

ROME,  May  1891. 


AFTER   RUYSDAEL 

THROUGH  briery  ways,  from  underneath 
The  far-off  sadness  of  the  gold 

That  fades  above  the  sun,  the  waves 
Swift  to  our  very  feet  are  rolled. 

Above,  beyond,  to  either  side, 

The  sombre  woods  bend  overhead; 

And  underneath,  the  wild  brown  waves 
Leap  joyously,  with  lightsome  tread, 


AFTER   ALBERT    CUYP  335 

From  rock  to  rock,  and  laugh  and  sing, 
Like  lonely  maids  in  woods  at  play ; 
Till  in  the  cold,  still  pool  below, 

A-sudden  checked,  they  stand  at  bay, 

Like  girls  who,  in  their  mood  of  joy, 
To  this  more  solemn  woodland  glide, 

And  with  some  brief,  sweet  terror  touched, 
Stand  wistful,  trembling,  tender-eyed. 

What  half-felt  sense  of  something  gone, 
What  sadness  in  the  moveless  woods; 

What  sorrow  haunts  yon  amber  sky, 
That  over  all  so  darkly  brood ! 


AFTER  ALBERT  CUYP 

A  SUNSET  silence  holds  the  patient  land; 
Against  the  sun  the  stolid  cattle  stand; 
Framed  hazy,  in  the  gold  that  slips 
Between  the  sails  of  lazy  ships, 
And  floods  with  level,  yellow  light 
The  broad,  green  meadow  grasses  bright. 


336  NEAR   AMSTERDAM 


NEAR   AMSTERDAM 

AFTER    ALBERT    CUYP 

SOBER  gray  skies  and  ponderous  clouds, 
With  gaps  between  of  pallid  blues; 

Bluff  breezes  stirring  the  brown  canal; 
A  broad,  flat  meadow's  myriad  hues 

Of  soft  and  changeful  breadths  of  green, 
Barred  with  the  silvery  grass  that  bows 

By  straight  canals,  and  dotted  o'er 

With  black  and  white  of  basking  cows; 

And  distant  sails  of  hidden  ships 

The  ceaseless  windmills  show  or  hide, 

Through  languid  willows  white  they  gleam, 
And  over  red-tiled  houses  glide. 

Two  sturdy  lads  with  wooden  shoes 

Go  clumping  down  the  reed-fringed  dyke, 

And  tow  a  broad-bowed  boat,  where  dreams 
The  quaint,  sweet  virgin  of  Van  Eyck. 

And  slipt  from  out  the  revel  high, 

Where  gay  Franz  Hals  has  bid  him  sit, 

Above  the  bridge,  his  lazy  pipe 
Smokes  placidly  the  stout  De  Witt. 


MILAN  337 


AFTER    TENIERS 

A  QUIET  curve  of  sombre  brown  water, 

Flecked  with  duck-weed  and  dotted  with  leaves 

A  low  brick  cottage,  where  shadows  nestle 
'Neath  velvet  edges  of  well-thatched  eaves. 

In  front  a  space,  with  its  gaudy  dahlias 
And  solid  shade  of  the  branching  lime, 

Where,  soberly  gay,  two  boors  are  drinking 
In  the  deep'ning  gloom  of  the  evening  time. 

1870. 

MILAN 

DA    VINCI'S    CHRIST 

ALL  day  long,  year  after  year, 
Maid  and  man  and  priest  and  lay 

Wander  in  from  crowded  streets, 

And  through  the  long,  cool  gallery  stray. 

And  with  them,  in  the  fading  light, 
We  loiter  past  the  pictured  wall, 

Till  lo !  a  face  before  us  comes, 

And  something  wistful  seems  to  fall 

From  two  strange  eyes  that  speak  to  all ; 

For  here  a  priest,  and  there  a  maid, 
Two  lads,  a  soldier,  and  a  bonne, 

Before  the  rail  their  steps  have  stayed. 


MILAN 

What  message  bore  this  awful  face, 
Through  all  the  waning  centuries  fled? 

What  says  it  to  the  gazer  now? 
What  said  it  to  the  myriad  dead 

Who  came  and  went  like  us  to-day, 
And,  pausing  here  in  silence,  all 

In  silence  laid  their  weight  of  sins 
Before  this  still  confessional? 

A  face  more  sad  man  never  dreamed, 
A  face  more  sweet  man  never  wrought; 

So  solemn-sad,  so  solemn-sweet, 
Serenely  set  in  quiet  thought. 

The  silent  sunlight  slips  away, 

The  soldiers  pass,  the  bonne  goes  by; 

The  painter  drapes  his  copy  in, 

And  stops  his  work  and  heaves  a  sigh. 

And  followed  by  those  eyes,  that  have 

The  patience  of  eternity, 
We  carry  to  the  bustling  street 

Their  loving  Benedicite. 

1870. 


BRUGES:  QUAI  DES  AUGUSTINS        339 
BRUGES:   QUAI   DES  AUGUSTINS' 

AFTER    VAN    DER    VEER 

WITHIN  the  sad,  deserted  street, 

We  stand  a  little  space  to  gaze, 
Beneath  the  high-walled  garden's  shade, 

Amid  the  twilight's  growing  haze. 

The  still  depths  of  the  dark  canal, 
Between  gray  walls  of  ancient  stone, 

Stir  not  to  any  wind  that  blows, 
And  seem  so  silent,  so  alone, 

We  wonder  at  the  lazy  swans 

That  o'er  the  water  dare  to  glide, 

And  marvel  at  the  lads  who  cast 

Their  pebbles  from  the  bridge's  side. 

Quaint  houses  bound  the  darksome  wave, 
Time-tinted,  yellow,  umber,  gray, 

With  gaping  gargoyles  overhead, 
And  underneath  sweet  gardens  gay, 

With  ivy,  flung  like  cloaks  of  green 
Upon  the  worn  and  mottled  wall; 

Forgotten  centuries  ago 

By  burgher  dames  at  even-fall. 

Across  the  narrow  space  of  flowers, 

A  maid  in  scarlet  petticoat 
Comes  with  the  shining  pail  of  brass, 

And  bends  above  the  moveless  moat; 


340  THE   WAVES   AT    MIDNIGHT 

And  breaks  her  image  with  the  pail, 
And  scares  the  swans,  and  trips  away, 

And  leaves  the  stern,  gray,  sombre  street 
To  silence  and  the  waning  day. 

1870. 


THE    WAVES    AT    MIDNIGHT 

THE    CLIFFS,    NEWPORT 

SEEN  in  the  night  by 

Their  snows,  as  they  crush, 

Evermore   saying  — 

Hush  —  hush  —  hush  — 

They  fall,  and  they  die, 

Break,  and  perish,  without  reply. 

And  are  not  and  are, 

And  come  back  again 

With  the  sob  and  throb 

Of  a  constant  pain, 

And  snatch  from  afar 

The  tremulous  light  of  a  single  star. 

Always  the  cliffs  hear, 

How  mournfully  sweet 

Their  murmurous  music, 

Their  cry  of  defeat, 

As  near  and  more  near 

They  shiver  and  die  in  darkness  drear. 


EVENING    BY   THE    SEA  341 

Bleaker  the  cliffs  be, 
And  blacker  the  night, 
Where  tender  with  sorrow, 
Where  eager  for  light, 
The  waves  of  life's  sea 
Wail,  crushed  at  an  answerless  cliff-wall 
for  me. 

1889. 


THE   RISING   TIDE 

AN  idle  man,  I  stroll  at  eve, 

Where  move  the  waters  to  and  fro; 
Full  soon  their  added  gains  will  leave 

Small  space  for  me  to  come  and  go. 

Already  in  the  clogging  sand 
I  walk  with  dull,  retarded  feet; 

Yet  still  is  sweet  the  lessening  strand, 
And  still  the  lessening  light  is  sweet. 

NEWPORT,  October  1891. 


EVENING   BY   THE   SEA 

WITH  noble  waste  of  lazy  hours 
I  loitered,  till  I  saw  the  moon, 

A  rosy  pearl,  hang  vast  and  strange 
Above  the  long  gray  dune ! 


342  BEAVER-TAIL    ROCKS 

And  hither,  thither,  as  I  went, 
My  ancient  friend  the  sea  beside, 

Whatever  tune  my  spirit  sang 
The  dear  old  comrade  tried. 

BAR  HARBOR,  1892. 


BEAVER-TAIL   ROCKS 

CANONICUT 

FARE  forth  my  soul,  fare  forth,  and  take  thine  own; 
The  silver  morning  and  the  golden  eve 
Wait,  as  the  virgins  waited  to  receive 
The  bridegroom  and  the  bride,  with  roses  strown ; 

Fare  forth  and  lift  her  veil, —  the  bride  is  joy  alone  ! 
To  thee  the  friendly  hours  with  her  shall  bring 
The  changeless  trust  that  bird  and  poet  sing; 
Her  dower  to-day  shall  be  the  asters  sown 

On  breezy  uplands ;  hers  the  vigor  brought 
Upon  the  north  wind's  wing,  and  hers  for  thee 
A  stately  heritage  of  land  and  sea, 

And  all  that  nature  hath,  and  all  the  great  have 

thought, 

While  low  she  whispers  like  a  sea-born  shell 
Things  that  thy  love  may  hear  but  never  tell. 

1889. 


THE    CARRY  343 

THE    CARRY 

NIPIGON 

BLUE  is  the  sky  overhead, 

Blue  with  the  northland's  pallor, 

Never  a  cloud  in  sight, 

Naught  but  the  moon's  gray  sickle; 

And  ever  around  me,  gray, 

Ashes,  and  rock,  and  lichen. 

Far  as  the  sick  eye  searches 

Ghastly  trunks,  that  were  trees  once, 

Up  to  their  bony  branches 

Carry  the  gray  of  ruin. 

Lo !  where  across  the  mountain 

Swept  the  scythe  of  the  wind-fall, 

Moss  of  a  century's  making 

Lies  on  this  death-swath  lonely, 

Where  in  grim  heaps  the  wood  sachems, 

Like  to  the  strange  dead  of  battle, 

Stay,  with  their  limbs  ever  rigid 

Set  in  the  doom-hour  of  anguish. 

Far  and  away  o'er  this  waste  land 

Wanders  a  trail  through  gray  boulders, 

Brown  to  the  distant  horizon. 

1870. 


344  THE    LOST    PHILOPENA 


IDLENESS 

THERE  is  no  dearer  lover  of  lost  hours 

Than  I. 
I  can  be  idler  than  the  idlest  flowers; 

More  idly  lie 

Than  noonday  lilies  languidly  afloat, 
And  water  pillowed  in  a  windless  moat. 

And  I  can  be 

Stiller  than  some  gray  stone 
That  hath  no  motion  known. 

It  seems  to  me 
That  my  still  idleness  doth  make  my  own 

All  magic  gifts  of  joy's  simplicity. 

RISTIGOUCHE  RIVER,  1892. 


THE    LOST    PHILOPENA 

TO    M.    G.    M. 

MORE  blest  is  he  who  gives  than  who  receives, 

For  he  that  gives  doth  always  something  get: 

Angelic  usurers  that  interest  set: 
And  what  we  give  is  like  the  cloak  of  leaves 

Which  to  the  beggared  earth  the  great  trees  fling, 
Thoughtless  of  gain  in  chilly  autumn  days: 
The  mystic  husbandry  of  nature's  ways 

Shall  fetch  it  back  in  greenery  of  the  Spring. 
One  tender  gift  there  is,  my  little  maid, 
That  doth  the  giver  and  receiver  bless, 


COME   IN  345 

And  shall  with  obligation  none  distress; 
Coin  of  the  heart  in  God's  just  balance  weighed; 
Wherefore,  sweet  spendthrift,  still  be  prodigal, 
And  freely  squander  what  thou  hast  from  all. 

LUCERNE,  July  1891. 


GOOD-NIGHT 

GOOD-NIGHT.     Good-night.     Ah,  good  the  night 
That  wraps  thee  in  its  silver  light. 
Good-night.     No  night  is  good  for  me 
That  does  not  hold  a  thought  of  thee. 
Good-night. 

Good-night.     Be  every  night  as  sweet 
As  that  which  made  our  love  complete, 
Till  that  last  night  when  death  shall  be 
One  brief  "  Good-night,"  for  thee  and  me. 
Good-night. 

NEWPORT,  1890. 


COME    IN 

"  COME  in."     I  stand,  and  know  in  thought 
The  honest  kiss,  the  waiting  word, 

The  love  with  friendship  interwrought, 
The  face  serene  by  welcome  stirred. 

BAR  HARBOR,  1892. 


346  OCTOBER 


LOSS 

LIFE  may  moult  many  feathers,  yet  delight 

To  soar  and  circle  in  a  heaven  of  joy; 

The  pinion  robbed  must  learn  more  swift  employ, 

Till  the  thinned  feathers  end  our  eager  flight. 

BAR  HARBOR,  1892. 


A    GRAVEYARD 

As  beats  the  unrestful  sea  some  ice-clad  isle 
Set  in  the  sorrowful  night  of  arctic  seas, 
Some  lorn  domain  of  endless  silences, 
So,  echoless,  unanswered,  falleth  here 
The  great  voiced  city's  roar  of  fretful  life. 

ROME,  1891. 


OCTOBER 

STAY,  gentle  sunshine,  stay; 

Sweet  west  wind,  bide  awhile; 
Nay,  linger,  and  my  maid 

Shall  bribe  you  with  a  smile. 

Sweet  sun  and  west  wind,  stay, 
You  know  not  what  you  miss; 

Nay,  linger,  and  my  maid 
Shall  pay  you  with  a  kiss. 

1890. 


YOU   AND    I  347 

SEPTEMBER 

SIR  GOLDENROD  stands  by  and  grieves 

Where  Queen  September  goeth  by : 
Her  viewless  feet  disturb  the  leaves, 

And  with  her  south  the  thrushes  fly, 
Or  loiter  'mid  the  rustling  sheaves, 

And  search  and  fail,  and  wonder  why. 
The  burgher  cat-tails  stiffly  bow 

Beside  the  marsh.     The  asters  cast 
Their  purple  coronets,  and  below 

The  brown  ferns  shiver  in  the  blast, 
And  all  the  fretted  pool  aglow 

Repeats  the  cold,  clear,  yellow  sky. 
The  dear,  loved  summer  days  are  past, 

And  tranquil  goes  the  Queen  to  die. 

1889. 

YOU   AND    I 

WHAT  would  you  say 
If  you  were  I, 
And  I  were  near, 
And  no  one  by; 
If  you  were  I? 

What  would  you  do 
If  you  were  I, 
And  night  were  dark, 
And  none  were  nigh? 
What  would  you  do? 


348  THE    CHRIST   OF   THE   SNOWS 

What  would  I  say 
If  I  were  you, 
And  none  were  near, 
And  love  were  true? 
What  would  I  say? 

What  would  I  do  ? 
Just  only  this. 
And  on  my  cheek 
Soft  lit  a  kiss. 
This  did  she  do ! 

I  heard  a  cry, 

And  through  the  night 

Saw  far  away 

A  gleam  of  white, 

And  there  was  I ! 

But  not  again 
This  she  was  I ; 
Yet  still  I  loved, 
And  years  went  by. 
Ah,  not  again ! 

1890. 


THE    CHRIST    OF    THE    SNOWS 

A    NORWEGIAN    LEGEND 

SET  wine  on  the  table 
And  bread  on  the  plate ; 

Cast  logs  on  the  ashes, 
And  reverent  wait. 


THE    CHRIST    OF    THE    SNOWS  349 

The  wine  of  love's  sweetness 

Set  out  in  thy  breast, 
And  the  white  bread  of  welcome, 

To  comfort  the  Guest. 

For  surely  He  cometh, 

Now  midnight  is  near; 
The  wild  winds,  like  wolf-packs, 

Have  fled  in  their  fear, 

Or  hid  in  far  fiords, 

Or  died  on  the  floes: 
For  surely  He  cometh, 

Our  Christ  of  the  Snows. 

Along  by  the  portal, 

Half  joy  and  half  fear, 
Wait  man,  maid,  and  matron 

The  step  none  shall  hear; 

The  babe  at  the  doorway, 

And  age  with  eyes  dim, — 
They  whom  birth  near  or  death  near 

Make  closest  to  Him. 

The  clock  tolleth  midnight : 

Cast  open  the  door; 
Shrink  back  ere  He  passeth, 

Kneel  all  on  the  floor. 

The  stillness  of  terror 

Possesseth  the  night, 
From  star-haunted  heaven 

To  snow  spaces  white. 


35°  THE    CHRIST    OF   THE    SNOWS 

Lo  !  shaken  by  ghost  gods 

Who  angrily  fly, 
The  banners  of  Odin 

Flame  red  on  the  sky. 

The  last  note  hath  stricken: 
Did  He  pass?     Was  He  here? 

Is  it  sorrow  or  joy  that 
Shall  rule  the  new  year? 

The  mother  who  watcheth 
The  face  of  the  child 

Saith,  Ah,  He  was  with  us, — 
The  baby  hath  smiled ! 

The  virgin  who  bends  o'er 
The  cup  on  the  board 

Cries,  Lo !  the  wine  trembled, — 
'T  was  surely  the  Lord ! 

Sing  Christmas,  sweet  Christmas, 
All  good  men  below; 

Sing  Christmas  that  bringeth 
Our  Christ  of  the  Snow. 

1880. 


ST.    CHRISTOPHER  351 

ST.    CHRISTOPHER 

FOR   A    CHILD 

THERE  was  none  so  tall  as  this  giant  bold. 

He  had  a  name  that  could  not  be  told, 

A  name  so  crooked  no  Christian  men 

Could  say  it  over  and  speak  again. 

One  day  he  came  where  a  good  man  prayed 

All  alone  in  the  forest  shade. 

Then  the  giant  in  wonder  said: 

"  Why  do  you  bend  the  knee  and  head?  " 

"  I  bend,"  he  said.  "  because  I  be 

The  weakest  thing  that  you  can  see. 

To  Christ  who  is  so  good  and  strong, 

I  pray  for  help  to  do  no  wrong." 

"  Ho,"  said  the  giant,  "  when  I  see 

One  strong  enough  to  conquer  me, 

I  shall  be  glad  to  bend  my  knees, 

Which  are  as  stout  as  any  trees." 

"  But,"  said  the  good  man,  sad  and  old, 

"  Yon  stream  is  deep,  the  water  cold. 

Prayer  is  the  Spirit's  work  for  some. 

Work  is  the  prayer  of  the  body  dumb." 

"If  that  be  prayer,"  said  the  giant  tall, 

"  The  maimed  and  sick,  the  weak  and  small, 

Across  the  stream  and  to  and  fro, 

I  shall  carry  and  come  and  go, 

Until  the  time  when  I  shall  see 

Thy  strong  Christ  come  to  humble  me." 

So  all  day  long,  with  patient  hand, 

He  bore  the  weak  from  strand  to  strand. 


352  ST.    CHRISTOPHER 

At  last,  one  eve,  when  winds  were  wild, 
He  heard  the  voice  of  a  little  child 
Saying,  "  Giant,  art  thou  asleep  ? 
Carry  me  over  the  river  deep." 
On  his  shoulder  broad  he  set  the  child, 
And  laughed  to  see  how  the  infant  smiled. 
Up  to  his  waist  the  giant  strode, 
While  fierce  around  the  water  flowed; 
His  great  back  shook,  his  great  knees  bent, 
As  staggering  through  the  waves  he  went. 
"Why  is  this?"  he  cried  aloud; 
"  Why  should  my  great  back  be  bowed  ?  " 
Spake  from  his  shoulder,  sweet  and  clear, 
A  voice, — 't  was  like  a  bird's  to  hear, — 
"  I  am  the  Christ  to  whom  men  pray 
When  comes  the  morn  and  wanes  the  day." 
"  No,"  said  the  giant,  "  a  child  art  thou. 
Not  to  a  babe  shall  proud  men  bow !  " 
He  set  the  child  on  the  farther  land, 
And  wiped  his  brow  with  shaking  hand. 
"  In  truth,"  he  cried,  "  the  load  was  great, 
Wherefore  art  thou  this  heavy  weight  ?  " 
The  little  child  said,  "  I  was  heavy  to  thee 
Because  the  world's  sins  rest  on  me." 
"If  thou  canst  carry  them  all  on  thee, 
Who  art  but  a  little  child  to  see, 
Thou  must  be  strong,  and  I  be  weak, 
And  thou  must  be  the  one  I  seek." 
Therefore  the  giant,  day  by  day, 
Still  kept  his  work,  and  learned  to  pray. 
And  his  pagan  name  that  none  should  hear 
Was  changed  to  Giant  Christopher. 

1887. 


LINES    TO    A   DESERTED    STUDY  353 


LINES   TO  A  DESERTED   STUDY 

HUSH  !     Feel  ye  not  around  us  teem 

The  shapes  that  haunted  Goethe's  dream? 

When  lifted  genius  mused  apart, 

And  taste  inspired  the  soul  of  art; 

Young  first  Love,  coy  with  trembling  wings, 

And  Hope,  the  lark  that  soaring  sings, 

And  boyhood  friendships  prone  to  fade 

Through  pleasant  zones  of  sun  and  shade; 

With  many  a  phantom  born  of  youth, 

The  trust  in  honor,  faith,  and  truth 

That  fails  in  after  years; 

The  perfect  pearls  of  life's  young  dream 

Dissolved  in  manhood's  tears. 

Through  Time's  swift  loom  our  joys  and  griefs 

In  braided  strands  together  run; 

To  weave  about  this  world  of  ours 

Wild  tapestries  of  shade  and  sun. 

And  seems  it  not  as  if  to-night, 

Dear,  dusty,  many-memoried  room, 

Our  souls  had  lost  the  threads  of  light, 

And  like  the  eve  kept  gathering  gloom? 

Ay,  and  for  one  of  us  the  hour 

Must  have,  methinks,  a  double  power, 

As  backwards  turns  his  saddened  look, 

To  view  again  those  many  scenes, 

When  life  was  like  an  uncut  book, 

And  Joy  was  in  her  rosy  teens, 

Yes,  even  we  who  later  knew 

The  home  of  friendship  and  of  taste, 


354  LINES    TO    A   DESERTED    STUDY 

Stand  saddened  by  the  parting  view 

Of  scenes  by  recollection  graced. 

Ah,  there  the  books  looked  meekly  out 

Above  an  alligator's  snout; 

And  bugs  and  fossils,  birds  and  bones, 

Round-shouldered  bottles,  jars,  and  stones, 

Stood  up  in  order  sage, — 

Memorials  they  of  every  clime, 

Remains  of  every  age. 

Oh,  yes,  ft  was  here  at  eventide 

We  lingered  by  the  table's  side, 

While  Wit  her  lightning  stories  told, 

And  through  Havana's  clouds  of  gold 

The  thunder-storm  of  laughter  rolled, 

Till  Mirth  her  very  contrast  brought, 

And  drooped  the  brow  in  earnest  thought; 

While  tranced  we  sat,  as  now  we  sit, 

And  fast  the  parting  time  draws  near, 

And  these  stained  walls  seem  gathering  grace 

As  if  to  grow  more  doubly  dear; 

And  not  an  ink-mark  on  the  boards 

But  wears  a  half-appealing  look. 

The  mottled  wall,  the  naked  floor, 

I  read  them  as  ye  read  a  book, — 

As  if  they  something  had  to  say, 

And  sought  but  could  not  find  a  way; 

As  often  'mid  the  waning  year, 

In  brown-cheeked  autumn's  bowers, 

The  leaves  ye  tread  seem  rustling  low, — 

Tread  gently,  we  were  flowers. 


AN    OLD    MAN    TO    AN    OLD    MADEIRA        355 


AN    OLD    MAN    TO    AN    OLD    MADEIRA 

WHEN  first  you  trembled  at  my  kiss 
And  blushed  before  and  after, 

Your  life,  a  rose  'twixt  May  and  June, 
Was  stirred  by  breeze  of  laughter. 

I  asked  no  mortal  maid  to  leave 
A  kiss  where  there  were  plenty; 

Enough  the  fragrance  of  your  lips 
When  I  was  five-and-twenty. 

Fair  mistress  of  a  moment's  joy, 

We  met,  and  then  we  parted; 
You  gave  me  all  you  had  to  give, 

Nor  were  you  broken-hearted ! 

For  other  lips  have  known  your  kiss, 

Oh  !  fair  inconstant  lady, 
While  you  have  gone  your  shameless  way 

'Till  life  has  passed  its  heyday. 

And  then  we  met  in  middle  age, 

You  matronly  and  older; 
And  somewhat  gone  your  maiden  blush, 

And  I,  well,  rather  colder. 

And  now  that  you  are  thin  and  pale, 

And  I  am  slowly  graying, 
We  meet,  remindful  of  the  past, 

When  we  two  went  a-maying. 


356  ADAM 

Alas !  while  you,  an  old  coquette, 
Still  flaunt  your  faded  roses, 

The  arctic  loneliness  of  age 
Around  my  pathway  closes. 

Dear  aged  wanton  of  the  feast, 
Egeria  of  gay  dinners, 

I  leave  your  unforgotten  charm 
To  other  younger  sinners. 


ADAM 

A    HUNGARIAN    LEGEND 

FAR  in  Asia,  saith  the  legend, 
On  a  peak  whose  nameless  towers 
Use  the  plains  a  hundred  miles  off 
For  their  dial  of  the  hours; 

Where  the  tallest  Himalaya 
Rises  sad  because  so  lonely, 
Whence  the  eagle  swoops  in  terror, 
And  the  stars  of  God  are  only, — 

Sitteth  one  of  ancient  visage, 

One  more  strange  than  aught  below  him, 

One  who  lived  so  near  to  God  once 

That  for  man  we  scarce  should  know  him; 

Far  above  the  busy  world  tribes, 
Miles  above  the  pine-trees,  bending, 
Lonely  as  when  God  first  made  him, 
There  he  keepeth  watch  unending. 


ADAM  357 

Wearily  his  eyes  are  searching 
Wide  and  far  amid  the  nations, 
In  their  centuried  depths  a  million 
Pictures  of  earth's  desolations. 

And  his  garments  long  and  ample 
Lie  as  though  in  death  he  slumbered; 
Never  breeze  hath  stirred  their  stillness 
Since  his  earthly  days  were  numbered. 

But  their  tints  are  ever  changing, 
Painted  by  the  woes  of  mortals, — 
Scarlet,  mottled,  darkened,  whitened, 
Like  the  morning's  cloud  of  portals; 

For  the  mists  of  human  passion, 
Anger,  sorrow,  love,  devotion, 
Rise  from  town,  and  mart,  and  forest, 
Float  from  hill,  and  field,  and  ocean, 

And  with  hate  and  murder's  crimson 
Stain  and  blot  his  mantle's  brightness, 
Or  with  love,  and  faith,  and  patience, 
Bleach  its  folds  to  noonday  whiteness. 

Yet  with  solemn  eyes  he  waiteth, 
Since  for  sins  that  rack  him  ever 
One  still  greater  heart  grows  sadder 
With  a  love  that  wearies  never; 

For  above  the  sad  earth's  murmurs, 
And  above  the  pale  star's  gray  light, 
Far  beyond  unthought-of  systems, 
And  the  shining  homes  of  daylight, 


358  TO    THE   FORGET-ME-NOTS 

^ 

One  there  is,  at  whose  dear  coming 
Peace  and  love  his  robes  shall  whiten, 
When,  his  earth-long  vigil  ended, 
Death  his  troubled  face  shall  brighten. 


TO  THE  FORGET-ME-NOTS 

ON  THE  PASS  OF  THE  MAIDEN,  JAPAN 

Lo !  Fujiyama's  snowy  cone 
The  green  horizon  bounds, 

And  Miajimi's  sacred  isle, 
And  Budda's  temple-grounds. 

Ah,  once  again  thy  voice  is  heard; 

Again  we  keep  our  tryst, 
As  when  upon  the  Switzer's  hill 

I  stood  amid  the  mist. 

Within  the  garden's  ordered  walks 

Thy  name  alone  I  hear, 
And  miss  the  gentle  voice  that  calls 

When  none  but  I  am  near. 

But  where  the  mountain  summits  rise 

Is  ever  sacred  sod, 
And  here  thy  timid  counsel  breathes 

A  deep  appeal  to  God. 

Ah,  least  of  all  the  many  flowers 

That  on  my  path  are  set, 
Read  me  thy  Sermon  on  the  Mount : 

What  should  I  not  forget? 


TO   A    MAGNOLIA    FLOWER  359 

"  Forget  me  not."     How  simple  seems 

The  counsel  shyly  given ! 
Let  each  interpret  for  himself 

This  voice  of  earth  and  heaven. 

Ah !  once  on  Albula's  gray  pass 

I  prayed  that  I  might  get, 
With  foresight  of  a  darker  day, 

The  sad  leave  to  forget; 

Nor  knew,  alas !  how  soon  would  come 

Sore  need  to  urge  my  prayer. 
Ah,  tender  maidens  of  the  hill 

That  constant  sorrow  share. 

Forget?     Ah,  yes !  the  living  fade 

From  memory,  not  the  dead. 
Thine  are  their  voices  as  to-day 

These  alien  hills  I  tread. 


TOKIO. 


TO  A  MAGNOLIA  FLOWER 

IN    THE    GARDEN    OF    THE    ARMENIAN    CONVENT 
AT    VENICE 

I  SAW  thy  beauty  in  its  high  estate 

Of  perfect  empire,  where  at  set  of  sun 

In  the  cool  twilight  of  thy  lucent  leaves 

The  dewy  freshness  told  that  day  was  done. 


360  TO    A    MAGNOLIA    FLOWER 

Hast  thou  no  gift  beyond  thine  ivory  cone's 
Surpassing  loveliness?  Art  thou  not  near  — 

More  near  than  we  —  to  nature's  silentness ; 
Is  it  not  voiceful  to  thy  finer  ear? 

Thy  folded  secrecy  doth  like  a  charm 

Compel  to  thought.     What  spring-born  yearning  lies 
Within  the  quiet  of  thy  stainless  breast 

That  doth  with  languorous  passion  seem  to  rise  ? 

The  soul  doth  truant  angels  entertain 

Who  with  reluctant  joy  their  thoughts  confess: 

Low-breathing,  to  these  sister  spirits  give 
The  virgin  mysteries  of  thy  heart  to  guess. 

What  whispers  hast  thou  from  yon  childlike  sea 
That  sobs  all  night  beside  these  garden  walls  ? 

Canst  thou  interpret  what  the  lark  hath  sung 
When  from  the  choir  of  heaven  her  music  falls? 

If  for  companionship  of  purity 

The  equal  pallor  of  the  risen  moon 
Disturb  thy  dreams,  dost  know  to  read  aright 

Her  silver  tracery  on  the  dark  lagoon? 

The  mischief-making  fruitfulness  of  May 
Stirs  all  the  garden  folk  with  vague  desires. 

Doth  there  not  reach  thine  apprehensive  ear 
The  faded  longing  of  these  dark-robed  friars, 

When,  in  the  evening  hour  to  memories  given, 
Some  gray-haired  man  amid  the  gathering  gloom 

For  one  delirious  moment  sees  again 

The  gleam  of  eyes  and  white- walled  Erzeroum? 


TO    A    MAGNOLIA    FLOWER 

Hast  thou  not  loved  him  for  this  human  dream? 

Or  sighed  with  him  who  yesterevening  sat 
Upon  the  low  sea-wall,  and  saw  through  tears 

His  ruined  home  and  snow-clad  Ararat? 

If  thou  art  dowered  with  some  refined  sense 
That  shares  the  counsels  of  the  nesting  bird, 

Canst  hear  the  mighty  laughter  of  the  earth, 
And  all  that  ear  of  man  hath  never  heard, 

If  the  abysmal  stillness  of  the  night 
Be  eloquent  for  thee,  if  thou  canst  read 

The  glowing  rubric  of  the  morning  song, 

Doth  each  new  day  no  gentle  warning  breed? 

Shall  not  the  gossip  of  the  maudlin  bee, 
The  fragrant  history  of  the  fallen  rose, 

Unto  the  prescience  of  instinctive  love 
Some  humbler  prophecy  of  joy  disclose? 

Cold  vestal  of  the  leafy  convent  cell, 

The  traitor  days  have  thy  calm  trust  betrayed; 
The  sea-wind  boldly  parts  thy  shining  leaves 

To  let  the  angel  in.     Be  not  afraid ! 

The  gold-winged  sun,  divinely  penetrant, 
The  pure  annunciation  of  the  morn 

Breathes  o'er  thy  chastity,  and  to  thy  soul 
The  tender  thrill  of  motherhood  is  borne. 

Set  wide  the  glory  of  thy  radiant  bloom ! 

Call  every  wind  to  share  thy  scented  breaths! 
No  life  is  brief  that  doth  perfection  win. 

To-day  is  thine  —  to-morrow  thou  art  death's  ! 

CORTINO  D'AMPEZZO,  July  1897. 


362  "  KING    HENRY    THE    FIFTH 


ON  A  BOY'S  FIRST  READING  OF 

THE  PLAY  OF  "  KING  HENRY 

THE  FIFTH  " 

WHEN  youth  was  lord  of  my  unchallenged  fate, 
And  time  seemed  but  the  vassal  of  my  will, 
I  entertained  certain  guests  of  state  — 
The  great  of  older  days,  who,  faithful  still, 
Have  kept  with  me  the  pact  my  youth  had  made. 

And  I  remember  how  one  galleon  rare 
From  the  far  distance  of  a  time  long  dead 
Came  on  the  wings  of  a  fair-fortuned  air, 
With  sound  of  martial  music  heralded, 
In  blazonry  of  storied  shields  arrayed. 

So  the  Great  Harry  with  high  trumpetings, 
The  wind  of  victory  in  her  burly  sails ! 
And  all  her  deck  with  clang  of  armor  rings : 
And  under-flown  the  Lily  standard  trails, 
And  over-flown  the  royal  Lions  ramp. 

The  waves  she  rode  are  strewn  with  silent  wrecks, 
Her  proud  sea-comrades  once ;  but  ever  yet 
Comes  time-defying  laughter  from  her  decks, 
Where  stands  the  lion-lord  Plantagenet, 
Large-hearted,  merry,  king  of  court  and  camp. 

Sail  on  !  sail  on !     The  fatal  blasts  of  time, 
That  spared  so  few,  shall  thee  with  joy  escort; 


GUIDARELLO  GUIDARELLI        363 

And  with  the  stormy  thunder  of  thy  rhyme 
Shalt  thou  salute  full  many  a  centuried  port 
With  "  Ho  !  for  Harry  and  red  Agincourt !  " 

1898. 


GUIDARELLO  GUIDARELLI 

RAVENNA    WARRIOR    (^502) 

What  was  said  to  the  Duke  by  the  sculptor  concerning 
Guidarello  Guidarelli,  and  of  the  monument  he  made  of 
his  friend.1 


"  GUIDARELLO  GUIDARELLI  !  " 

Ran  a  murmur  low  or  loud, 
As  he  rode  with  lifted  vizor, 

Smiling  on  the  anxious  crowd. 

"  Guidarello  Guidarelli !  " 

Rang  the  cry  from  street  and  tower, 

As  our  Guido  rode  to  battle 
In  Ravenna's  darkest  hour. 

"  Guidarello  Guidarelli !  " 
Little  thought  we  of  his  doom 

When  a  love-cast  rain  of  roses 
Fell  on  saddle,  mail,  and  plume. 

1  This  monumental  recumbent  statue  is  now  in  the  mu 
seum  at  Ravenna. 


364        GUIDARELLO  GUIDARELLI 

Low  he  bowed,  and  laughing  gaily 
Set  one  red  rose  in  his  crest, 

All  his  mail  a  scarlet  splendor 
Frem  the  red  sun  of  the  west. 

"  Guidarello  Guidarelli !  " 

So,  he  passed  to  meet  his  fate, 

With  the  cry  of  "  Guidarelli !  " 
And  the  clangor  of  the  gate. 

ii 

Well,  at  eve  we  bore  him  homeward, 
Lying  on  our  burdened  spears. 

Ah !  defeat  had  been  less  bitter, 
And  had  cost  us  fewer  tears. 

At  her  feet  we  laid  her  soldier, 

While  men  saw  her  with  amaze  — 

Fearless,  tearless,  waiting  patient, 
Some  wild  challenge  in  her  gaze. 

Then  the  hand  that  rained  the  roses 
Fell  upon  his  forehead  cold. 

"  Go  !  "  she  cried,  "  ye  faltering  cravens  ! 
One  that  fled,  your  shame  has  told. 

"  Go !     How  dare  ye  look  upon  him  — 
Ye  who  failed  him  in  the  fight  ? 

Off !  ye  beaten  hounds,  and  leave  me 
With  my  lonely  dead  to-night !  " 

No  man  answered,  and  they  left  us 
Where  our  darling  Guido  lay. 


GUIDARELLO  GUIDARELLI        365 

I  alone,  who  stood  beside  him 
In  the  fight,  made  bold  to  stay. 

"  Shut  the  gate !  "  she  cried.     I  closed  it. 

"  Lay  your  hand  upon  his  breast ; 
Were  you  true  to  him?  "     "  Ay,  surely, 

As  I  hope  for  Jesu's  rest !  " 

Then  I  saw  her  staring  past  me, 

As  to  watch  a  bird  that  flies, 
All  the  light  of  youthful  courage 

Fading  from  her  valiant  eyes. 

And  with  one  hoarse  cry  of  anguish 
On  the  courtyard  stones  she  fell, 

Crying,  "  Guido  Guidarelli !  " 
Like  the  harsh  notes  of  a  bell 

Breaking  with  its  stress  of  sweetness, 
Hence  to  know  a  voiceless  pain. 

"  Guidarello  Guidarelli !  " 
Never  did  she  speak  again: 

Save,  't  is  said,  she  wins,  when  dreaming, 

Tender  memories  of  delight; 
"  Guidarello  Guidarelli !  " 

Crying  through  the  quiet  night. 

in 

Ah !  you  like  it  ?    Well,  I  made  it 

Ere  death  aged  upon  his  face. 
See,  I  caught  the  parted  lip-lines 

And  the  lashes'  living  grace : 


366        GUIDARELLO  GUIDARELLI 

For  the  gentle  soul  within  him, 
Freed  by  death,  had  lingered  here, 

Kissing  his  dead  face  to  beauty, 
As  to  bless  a  home  grown  dear. 

He,  my  lord,  was  pure  as  woman, 
Past  the  thought  of  man's  belief; 

Truth  and  honor  here  are  written, 
And  some  strangeness  of  relief 

Born  beneath  my  eager  chisel 
As  a  child  is  born  —  a  birth 

To  my  parent-skill  mysterious, 
Of,  and  yet  not  all  of,  earth. 

Still  one  hears  our  women  singing, — 
For  a  love-charm,  so  't  is  said, — 

"  Guidarello  Guidarelli !  " 
Like  a  love-mass  for  the  dead. 

In  caressing  iteration 

With  his  name  their  voices  play  — 
"  Elli,  Nelli,  Guidarelli," 

Through  some  busy  market-day. 

Ah,  my  lord,  I  have  the  fancy 
That  through  many  a  year  to  come 

This  I  wrought  shall  make  the  stranger 
Share  our  grief  when  mine  is  dumb. 

VENICE,  June  1897. 


A   WAR    SONG   OF   TYROL  367 

A  WAR  SONG  OF  TYROL 

FREELY   ENGLISHED  FROM  "jOHANN    SENN 
(1792-1858) 

"  WILD  eagle  of  the  Tyrol, 

Why  are  thy  feathers  red  ?  " 
"  I  've  been  to  greet  the  morning 

On  Order's  crimsoned  head  1  " 

"  Gray  eagle  of  the  Tyrol, 

'T  is  not  the  morning  light 
Drips  from  the  soaring  pinions 

That  wing  thine  airy  flight. 

"  Proud  eagle  of  the  Tyrol, 

Why  are  thy  claws  so  red  ?  " 
"  I  've  been  where  Etschland's  maidens 

The  ruddy  vintage  tread." 

"  Gray  eagle  of  the  Tyrol, 

Red  runs  our  Tyrol  wine; 
But  redder  ran  the  vintage 

That  stained  those  claws  of  thine. 

"  Wild  eagle  of  the  Tyrol, 

Why  is  thy  beak  so  red?  " 
"  Go  ask  the  gorge  of  Stilfes,1 

Where  lie  the  Saxon  dead ! 

1  Here  the  Tyrolese  defeated  Marshal  Lefebvre  and  the 
Saxon  auxiliaries  of  France. 


3^8  THE   ff  TEXAS  " 

"  The  grapes  were  ripe  in  August 
Wherewith  my  beak  is  red; 

The  vines  that  gave  that  vintage 
No  other  wine  will  shed: 

My  beak  is  red  with  battle; 
I  've  been  among  the  dead !  " 

1897. 


THE  " TEXAS " 

SEEN  FROM  THE  BEACH  AT  ATLANTIC  CITY, 
MAY  6,    1898 

FAIR  in  the  white  array  of  peace, 

We  saw  her  from  the  distant  shore, 
And  felt  the  quickened  pulse  increase 

To  know  what  gallant  flag  she  bore. 
Proud  namesake  of  the  Lonely  Star, 

God  speed  thee  on  thy  watery  way, 
Or  be  it  peace,  or  be  it  war, 

That  waits  thee  in  that  Southern  bay. 
To  yon  far  island  of  the  sea, 

Twin  sister  of  the  Lonely  Star, 
Good-luck  and  honor  go  with  thee, 

Or  be  it  peace,  or  be  it  war ! 


1898. 


THE   SEA-GULL 


THE  SEA-GULL 


THE  woods  are  full  of  merry  minstrelsy; 

Glad  are  the  hedges  with  the  notes  of  spring; 
But  o'er  the  sad  and  uncompanioned  sea 

No  love-born  voices  ring. 

ii 

Gray  mariner  of  every  ocean  clime, 
If  I  could  wander  on  as  sure  a  wing, 

Or  beat  with  yellow  web  thy  pathless  sea, 
I  too  might  cease  to  sing. 

in 

Would  I  could  share  thy  silver-flashing  swoop, 
Thy  steady  poise  above  the  bounding  deep, 

Or  buoyant  float  with  thine  instinctive  trust, 
Rocked  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 

IV 

Thine  is  the  heritage  of  simple  things, 
The  untasked  liberty  of  sea  and  air, 

Some  tender  yearning  for  the  peopled  nest, 
Thy  only  freight  of  care. 


Thou  hast  no  forecast  of  the  morrow's  need, 
No  bitter  memory  of  yesterdays ; 

Nor  stirs  thy  thought  that  airy  sea  o'erhead, 
Nor  ocean's  soundless  ways. 


370  THE   SEA-GULL 

VI 

Thou  silent  raider  of  the  abounding  sea, 
Intent  and  resolute,  ah,  who  may  guess 

What  primal  notes  of  gladness  thou  hast  lost 
In  this  vast  loneliness ! 


VII 

Where  bides  thy  mate?     On  some  lorn  ocean  rock 
Seaward  she  watches.     Hark !  the  one  shrill  cry, 

Strident  and  harsh,  across  the  wave  shall  be 
Her  welcome  —  thy  reply. 

VIII 

When  first  thy  sires,  with  joy-discovered  flight, 

High  on  exultant  pinions  sped  afar, 
Had  they  no  cry  of  gladness  or  of  love, 

No  bugle  note  of  war  ? 

IX 

What  gallant  song  their  happy  treasury  held, 
Such  as  the  pleasant  woodland  folk  employ, 

The  lone  sea  thunder  quelled.     Thou  hast  one  note 
For  love,  for  hate,  for  joy. 


Yet  who  that  hears  this  stormy  ocean  voice 

Would  not,  like  them,  at  last  be  hushed  and  stilled, 

Were  all  his  days  through  endless  ages  past 
With  this  stern  music  filled? 


EGYPT  37 I 

XI 

What  matters  it  ?    Ah  !  not  alone  are  loved 
Leaf-cloistered  poets  who  can  love  in  song. 

Home  to  the  wild-eyed  !     Home  !     She  will  not  miss 
The  music  lost  so  long. 


XII 

Home !  for  the  night  wind  signals,  "  Get  thee  home  " ; 

Home,  hardy  admiral  of  the  rolling  deep; 
Home  from  the  foray  !     Home  !     That  silenced  song 

Love's  endless  echoes  keep. 

1898. 


EGYPT 

I  SAW  two  vultures,  gray  they  were  and  gorged : 
One  on  a  mosque  sat  high,  asleep  he  seemed, 
Claw-stayed  within  the  silver  crescent's  curve; 
Not  far  away,  another,  gray  as  he, 
As  full  content  and  somnolent  with  food, 
Clutched  with  instinctive  grip  the  golden  cross 
High  on  the  church  an  alien  creed  had  built. 
Yon  in  the  museum  mighty  Rameses  sleeps, 
For  some  new  childhood  swaddled  like  a  babe. 
Osiris  and  Jehovah,  Allah,  Christ, 
This  land  hath  known,  and,  in  the  dawn  of  time, 
The  brute-god-creature  crouching  in  the  sand, 
Ere  Rameses  worshipped  and  ere  Seti  died. 
How  much  of  truth  to  each  new  faith  He  gave 
Who  is  the  very  father  of  all  creeds, 


372  GIBRALTAR   AT   DAWN 

I  know  not  now  —  nor  shall  know.     Ever  still 
Past  temple,  palace,  tomb,  the  great  Nile  flows, 
Free  and  more  free  of  bounty  as  men  learn 
To  use  his  values.     Only  this  I  know. 

CAIRO,  1899. 


GIBRALTAR  AT  DAWN 

UP  and  over  the  sea  we  came, 

And  saw  the  dayspring  leap  to  flame. 

Full  in  face  Gibraltar  lay, 

Crouching,  lion-like,  at  bay, 

Stern  and  still  and  battle-scarred, 

Grimly  keeping  watch  and  ward. 

Hark,  and  hear  the  morning  gun 

Salute  time's  admiral,  the  sun, 

While  the  bleak  old  storied  keep, 

That  hath  never  known  to  sleep, 

Golden  'neath  the  morning  lies, 

Sentinelled  with  memories, 

Heard  when,  rolling  from  afar, 

The  hoarse  waves  thunder,  "  Trafalgar ! 

AT  SEA,  December  1898. 


STORM-WAVES   AND    FOG  373 


STORM-WAVES  AND  FOG  ON 
DORR'S  POINT,  BAR  HARBOR 

THE  fog's  gray  curtain  round  me  draws, 

And  leaves  no  world  to  me 
Save  this  swift  drama  of  the  stirred 
And  restless  sea. 

Forth  of  the  shrouding  fog  they  roll, 

As  from  a  viewless  world, 
Leap  spectral  white,  and,  pausing,  break, 
In  thunder  hurled. 

Ever  they  climb  and  cling  anew, 

Slide  from  the  smooth  rock  wall, 
With  thin  white  fingers  grip  the  weeds 
And  seaward  crawl. 

In  rhythmic  rote  o'er  shivering  sands 

They  glide  adown  the  shore 
With  murmurous  whispering  of  "  Hush  !  " 
And  then  no  more. 


1907. 


374        THE   BIRTHDAY   OF   WASHINGTON 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF 
WASHINGTON 

1900 

REMEMBERING  him  we  praise  to-day, 
Hushed  is  the  mighty  roar  of  trade, 

And,  pausing  on  its  ardent  way, 
A  nation's  homage  here  is  paid. 

Upon  the  great  Virginian's  grave 

Look  down  the  new-born  century's  eyes, 

Where  by  his  loved  Potomac  wave 
In  God's  long  rest  His  soldier  lies. 

A  hundred  years  have  naught  revealed 
To  blot  this  manhood's  record  high, 

'  That  blazoned  duty's  stainless  shield 
And  set  a  star  in  honor's  sky/ 

In  self-approval  firm,  his  life 

Serenely  passed  through  darkest  days; 
In  calm  or  storm,  in  peace  or  strife, 

Unmoved  by  blame,  unstirred  by  praise. 

No  warrior  pride  disturbed  his  peace, 
Nor  place  nor  gain.     He  loved  his  fields, 

His  home,  the  chase,  his  land's  increase, 
The  simple  life  that  nature  yields. 


THE   BIRTHDAY   OF   WASHINGTON         375 

And  yet  for  us  all  man  could  give 
He  gave,  with  that  which  never  dies, 

The  gift  through  which  great  nations  live, 
The  lifelong  gift  of  sacrifice. 

With  true  humility  he  learned 

The  game  of  war,  the  art  of  rule; 
And,  calmly  patient,  slowly  earned 

His  competence  in  life's  large  school. 

Well  may  we  honor  him  who  sought 

To  live  with  one  unfailing  aim, 
And  found  at  last,  unasked,  unsought, 

In  duty's  path,  the  jewel,  fame ! 

And  He  who  girded  him  with  power, 
And  gave  him  strength  to  do  the  right, 

Will  ask  of  us,  in  some  stern  hour, 

"  How  have  ye  used  the  gift  of  might?  " 

Since,  till  this  harried  earth  shall  gain 

The  heaven  of  Thy  peace,  O  Lord ! 
Freedom  and  Law  will  need  to  reign 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  sword. 


376  WHICH? 


FLORENCE  * 

APRIL   FIRST 

COME,  let  us  be  the  willing  fools 

Of  April's  earliest  day, 
And  dream  we  own  all  pleasant  things 

The  years  have  reft  away. 

'T  is  but  to  take  the  poet's  wand, 

A  touch  or  here  or  there, 
And  I  have  lost  that  ancient  stoop, 

And  you  are  young  and  fair. 

Ah,  no !     The  years  that  gave  and  took 

Have  left  with  you  and  me 
The  wisdom  of  the  widening  stream; 

Trust  we  the  larger  sea. 


WHICH? 

Birth-day  or  Earth-day, 
Which  the  true  mirth-day? 
Earth-day  or  birth-day, 
Which  the  well- worth  day? 

February  15,  1909. 

1  Except  the  last  two  lines,  which  I  failed  to  capture,  the 
rest  of  these  verses  I  composed  while  asleep.  I  have  many 
times  seemed  to  make  verses  in  sleep;  only  thrice  could  I 
recall  them  on  waking.  The  four  lines  called  "  Which " 
were  also  made  in  sleep.  The  psychological  interest  of 
this  sleep  product  may  excuse  this  personal  statement. 


INDIAN    SUMMER  377 

JEKYL    ISLAND 

EBB-TIDE 

FADING  light  on  a  lonely  beach, 

A  slow  out-creeping  tide 

That  leaves  to  me  on  sea-etched  sands 
The  ocean's  cryptic  speech. 

Adown  the  ever  broadening  strand 
Moon-witched  waters  steal, 
And  over  the  dunes  a  wild  wind  swoops 

And  frets  the  silted  sand. 

INDIAN    SUMMER 

THE  stillness  that  doth  wait  on  change  is  here, 
Some  pause  of  expectation  owns  the  hour; 

And  faint  and  far  I  hear  the  sea  complain 

Where  gray  and  answerless  the  headlands  tower. 

Slow  fails  the  evening  of  the  dying  year, 
Misty  and  dim  the  waiting  forests  lie, 

Chill  ocean  winds  the  wasted  woodland  grieve, 
And  earthward  loitering  the  leaves  go  by. 

Behold  how  nature  answers  death !  O'erhead 
The  memoried  splendor  of  her  summer  eves 

Lavished  and  lost,  her  wealth  of  sun  and  sky, 
Scarlet  and  gold,  are  in  her  drifting  leaves. 


INDIAN    SUMMER 

Vain  pageantry  !  for  this,  alas,  is  death, 
Nor  may  the  seasons'  ripe  fulfilment  cheat 

My  thronging  memories  of  those  who  died 

With  life's  young  summer  promise  incomplete. 

The  dead  leaves  rustle  'neath  my  lingering  tread. 

Low  murmuring  ever  to  the  spirit  ear  : 
We  were,  and  yet  again  shall  be  once  more, 

In  the  sure  circuits  of  the  rolling  year. 

Trust  thou  the  craft  of  nature.  Lo  !  for  thee 
A  comrade  wise  she  moves,  serenely  sweet, 

With  wilful  prescience  mocking  sense  of  loss 
For  us  who  mourn  love's  unreturning  feet. 

Trust  thou  her  wisdom,  she  will  reconcile 
The  faltering  spirit  to  eternal  change 

When,  in  her  fading  woodways,  thou  shalt  touch 
Dear   hands   long   dead   and   know   them   not   as 
strange. 

For  thee  a  golden  parable  she  breathes 

Where  in  the  mystery  of  this  repose, 
While  death  is  dreaming  life,  the  waning  wood 

With  far-caught  light  of  heaven  divinely  glows. 


Thou,  when  the  final  loneliness  draws  near, 
And  earth  to  earth  recalls  her  tired  child, 

In  the  sweet  constancy  of  nature  strong 

Shalt  dream  again  —  how  dying  nature  smiled. 

BAR  HARBOR,  1900. 


LOVE  379 


FRIENDSHIP 

No  wail  of  grief  can  equal  answer  win: 

Love's  faltering  echo  may  but  ill  express 
The  grief  for  grief,  nor  more  than  faintly  mock 

The  primal  cry  of  some  too  vast  distress. 
Or  is  it  for  fair  company  of  joy 

We  ask  an  equal  echo  from  the  heart? 
A  certain  loneliness  is  ever  ours, 

And  friendship  mourns  her  still  imperfect  art. 


1908. 


LOVE 


"  For  I  have  always  loved  you  for  many  reasons  and  in 
many  ways." —  P.  B. 

THE  daily  tribute  of  the  sun 

Lives  on,  in  tree,  and  fruit,  and  flower; 
Lives  on,  with  subtle  change  of  power, 

When  the  last  hour  of  day  is  done. 

And  what  the  kindly  sun  has  given, 

Reborn  in  many  a  varied  form, 

Is  in  the  wind,  the  sea,  the  storm, 
And  when  the  lightning  flames  through  heaven, 

And  is  itself  again;  and  so 

Through  many  ways  of  diverse  change 

Has  love  equality  of  range, 
And  back  again  as  love  may  flow; 


INNOGEN 

For  deathless,  as  God's  sunlight  still, 
Its  tender  ministry  renewed 
In  each  divine  beatitude, 

Shall  love  its  purposes  fulfil. 


INNOGEN 

A  stage  direction  in  the  old  copies  of  "  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing  "  is  :  "  Enter  Leonato,  Governour  of  Messina,  In- 
nogen  his  wife,  Hero  his  daughter,  and  Beatrice  his  niece, 
and  a  messenger."  As  the  wife  of  Leonato  takes  no  part 
in  the  action,  and  neither  speaks  nor  is  spoken  to  through 
out  the  play,  she  was  probably  no  more  than  a  character 
the  poet  had  designed  in  his  first  sketch  of  the  plot,  and 
which  he  found  reason  to  omit  afterward. 

IMMORTAL  shadow,  faint  and  ever  fair, 

Dear  for  unspoken  words  that  might  have  been, 
Compelled  to  silent  sorrow  none  may  share, 

A  ghost  of  Shakespeare's  world,  unheard,  unseen, 
How  many  more  like  thee  have  voiceless  stood 

Uncalled  upon  the  threshold  of  his  mind, 
The  speechless  children  of  a  mighty  brood 

Who  were  and  are  not !     Never  shall  they  find 
The  happier  comrades  unto  whom  he  gave 

Thought,    speech,    and   action  —  they   who   shall 

not  know 
The^end  of  our  realities,  the  grave, 

Nor  what  is  sadder,  life,  nor  any  human  woe. 


A  CHILD'S  PRAYER  381 


PRAYER 

WHEN  the  day  is  growing  old 
And  the  stars  their  vigils  keep, 

Lo,  a  gentle  voice  within 
Calling  to  the  fold  of  sleep. 

Whither,  thither,  know  I  not: 
His  the  silence,  His  the  care, 

When  my  soul  is  called  to  rest, 
Shepherded  by  quiet  prayer. 


THE   ANGELS    OF    PRAYER 

YE  to  whom  my  prayer  is  given, 
Gentle  couriers  of  heaven, 
Sailing  through  the  world  of  space 
'Neath  the  sun  of  Mary's  face, 
To  the  joy  of  Mary's  grace, 
Let  it  seem  a  little  child, 
Such  as  came  when  Jesu  smiled. 


A   CHILD'S   PRAYER 

HOLY  MOTHER  !     Holy  Mother  ! 

In  the  dark  I  fear. 
Light  me  with  thy  shining  eyes, 

Be  thou  ever  near. 


LINES    GIVEN    TO    M. 

Holy  Mother  !     Holy  Mother  ! 

Call  thy  little  Son, 
Bid  Him  bring  me  praying  dreams 

Ere  the  night  be  done. 


Call  the  angels,  call  them  early, 

Bid  them  fly  to  thee, 
One  to  call  the  little  birds, 

One  to  waken  me. 


LINES   GIVEN  TO   M.   AT 
CHRISTMAS 

WITH    A    GIFT    OF    THE   VIRGIN    OF    LUINI 

WHAT  shall  I  give  thee,  dear,  to-day, 
Upon  this  sacred  Christmas  morn, 

That  tells  us  of  the  gift  of  love 
God  gave  when  Christ  was  born, 

And  hope  became  a  seraph  winged 
With  timeless  dreams,  and  love  elate 

Saw  with  young  eyes  another  world 
Where  love's  lost  angels  wait? 

Ah,  small  were  any  richest  gift 

Without  such  love  as  thro'  the  years 

Was  sweeter  for  the  hour  of  joy 
And  nobler  for  the  day  of  tears. 


THE    PURE   OF    HEART  383 

Take,  then,  with  love  this  gentle  face 

That  had  a  more  than  human  share 
Of  joy  and  grief,  and  haply,  too, 

Through  the  long  years  of  sorrow  bore 


In  that  gray  village  of  the  hills, 
The  sense  of  some  diviner  loss 

Than  death  deals  out,  and  evermore 
The  anguish  of  the  lifted  cross. 


1905. 


THE    PURE    OF   HEART 

GENNESARET 

O'ER   my  head  the   starry  legions   marched  upon  their 

trackless  way; 
Far  below,  Gennesaret's  waters,  silent,  in  the  moonlight 

lay, 
And  the  Orient,  brooding  mother  of  all  creeds  that  men 

hold  dear, 
Cast  her  mystic  spell  upon  me,  and  I  murmured,  "  Was 

it  here?" 
Was  it  here  a  man,  a  peasant,  strange  ambassador  of 

God, 
Called  to  hear  His  stately  message  those  sad  children  of 

the  sod; 
Sowed  for  them  hope's  boundless  harvest,  lavished  for 

those  shepherds  rude 

All  that  wonder-wealth  of  promise,   each  divine  beati 
tude? 


THE    PURE   OF    HEART 

Marvelling,  my  thought  I  carried  into  sleep,  and  if  the 

earth 
Breathed  some  memory  of  the  legend,  or  in  dreams  it 

had  its  birth, 
Who  may  say?     I  tell  the  story  as  it  came  to  me  at 

night, 
From  the  underworld  of  slumber,  from  the  inner  world 

of  light. 
On  the  hilltop,  in  the  twilight,  grave  and  still  the  Master 

lay, 
While    the    westward    summits    crimsoned,    lustrous    in 

the  dying  day. 
What  had  I  to  learn,  a  rabbi,  schooled  and  lessoned  in 

the  law? 
Half  in  doubt  and  half  in  wonder,  there  apart  I  stood, 

and  saw 
How  some  gentle  impulse  moved  Him,  and  there  came 

upon  His  face, 
With  the  final  gold  of  sunset,  other  light,  of  joy  and 

grace, 
While  the  mountains  cast  their  shadows,  slowly  cloaking 

all  the  hill 
Where  the  multitude  in  silence  waited  on  the  Master's 

will; 
For  His  features  stirred,  uplifted  as  with  thought  upon 

the  wing, 
Stirred  as  stirs  the  great  earth-mother  when  she  feels  her 

child,  the  spring. 
Wistfully  men  bided,  longing  for  the  voice  their  eyes 

entreat, 
Forward  bent,  hands  locked,  and  quiet,  till  He  rose  upon 

His  feet. 


THE    PURE   OF    HEART  3^5 

And  He  gave  as  none  has  given  through  the  long  and 
weary  years, 

Blessings  that  have  lightened  labor,  promises  that  an 
swer  tears. 

When  at  last  the  white-clad  peasants  slowly  from  the 
hill  withdrew, 

Long  I  lingered,  why  I  knew  not,  till  at  last  I  surely 
knew 

That  my  soul  some  yearning  counselled,  bidding  me  re 
main.  I  stayed, 

Bolder  for  the  dark,  then  heard  Him :  "  Rabbi,  ask.  Be 
not  afraid." 

Low  I  questioned :  "  Lord  and  Master,  who  most  surely 
are  the  pure? 

Is  it  they  who,  born  and  dying,  have  no  sorrow  to  en 
dure, 

Like  the  snow  that  melts  at  morning,  from  the  soil  of 
earth  secure? 

Who  is  it  shall  see  .  .  .  ?  "  But  spoke  not  that  one  word 
is  left  unsaid 

When  the  priest  intones  the  psalmist,  and  the  sacred 
scrolls  are  read. 

"  Who  is  it  shall  dare  behold  Him,  and  the  Nameless 
One  abide, 

When  the  seraphs'  wings  are  folded,  and  the  angel  hosts 
divide?  " 

Then  I  felt  how  great  my  daring,  and  my  forehead 
flushed  with  shame ; 

Like  a  child  in  fear  I  waited,  waited  for  the  word  of 
blame. 

But  He  said,  "  Draw  near,  O  Rabbi,"  and  those  strange 
eyes  fell  on  mine, 


THE    PURE    OF    HEART 

And  I  knew  that  not  in  folly  I  had  sought  what  none 

divine. 
Touching   heart   and   lips   and   forehead,    as   when   one 

salutes  a  friend, 
Low  I  bent,  assured  and  silent,  waiting  what  His  heart 

would  send. 
"  See,  O  Rabbi,"  and  a  gesture  summoned  with  the  lifted 

hand; 
Lo,  a  mighty  wind,  arising,  drave  across  the  wakened 

land, 

Swept  Gennesaret's  startled  waters,  beat  across  the  bil 
lowed  grain, 
Waking  from  its  evening  quiet,  far  below,  the  dreaming 

plain, 
While  the  gnarled  and  aged  olives  wildly  swayed  above 

my  head, 
Heavy  with  the  summer  fruitage  wherewithal  a  man  is 

fed, 

Rich  with  oil  that   feeds  the  lamps  that  keep  remem 
brance  of  the  dead. 
And,  behold,  the  wind  He  summoned  for  His  parable,  at 

will, 
Gone  as  flies  a  bird,  and  stillness   fell  upon  the  lonely 

hill. 
"  Thou    art    learned    in     all    our    learning.     Once    at 

Nazareth  I  saw 
How   men   listened   to   Thy  teaching,   '  Come   and   read 

My  higher  law.'  " 
"  Rabbi,  Rabbi,  sweet  at  evening  are  the  lilies  bending 

low; 
Was  it   prayer  they  breathed,   when  rising  from   their 

dewy  overflow?  " 


THE    PURE   OF    HEART  3^7 

Wondering,  I  answered:  "  Master,  who  may  know?     But 

pure  and  sweet 
Are  they  to  the  desert  weary,  freshness  to  the  sand-hot 

feet." 
For  I  guessed  where  now  He  led  me,  and  with  thought 

that  swift  forewent, 

As  if  spirit  spake  to  spirit,  glad  at  heart,  I  stood  intent. 
"  Lo,"  He  said,  "  behold  the  olives  failing  with  the  sum 
mer  heat, 
Guarding  still  their  precious  harvest,   though  the  mad 

wind  on  them  beat." 
"  Yea,"  I  cried.     "  Oh,  surely,  Master,  strong  are  they, 

yet  pure  and  sweet." 
For  I  guessed  the  fuller  meaning  of  His  speech,  as  one 

foreknows 
When  on  Lebanon  the  rose-light  prophet  of  the  dawning 

glows. 
And  I  said :  "  Not  they  are  purest  who,  in  hermit  trance 

of  prayer, 

Bide  untempted  in  the  desert,  sinless  as  Thy  lilies  were; 
More  there  be  who  share  Thy  promise,  more  for  whom 

this  hope  has  smiled: 
They  the  burdened,  they  the  weary,  they  who  ever,  un- 

beguiled, 
Through  the  home,  the  street,  the  market,  bear  the  white 

heart  of  the  child." 
Lingering,  I  heard  His  answer:  "  Go  in  peace."     I  moved 

away, 
While  afar  the  westward  summits  slowly  turned  from 

gold  to  gray. 

BAR  HARBOR,  October  1904. 


388  THE    COMFORT    OF   THE    HILLS 


THE    COMFORT    OF    THE    HILLS 

Blessed  of  the  Lord  be  his  land,  for  the 
chief  things  of  the  ancient  mountains,  and 
for  the  precious  things  of  the  lasting  hill». 

HERE  have  I  wandered  oft  these  many  years 

Far  from  the  world's  restraint,  my  heart  at  ease, 

With  equal  liberty  of  joy  or  tears 

To  welcome  Nature's  generosities, 

Where  these  gray  summits  give  the  unburdened  mind 

To  clearer  thought,  in  freedom  unconfined. 

What  made  this  wide  estate  of  hill  and  plain 

So  surely  mine  to-day?     Of  God,  the  law 

That  gave  to  joy  the  right  of  ampler  reign  — 

For  in  love's  title  none  may  find  a  flaw, 

And  mine  the  equities  of  tribute  brought 

From  vassal  lands  no  earthly  gold  has  bought. 

As  flit  gray  gulls,  with  silver  flash  of  wings, 

Leap  and  are  lost  the  whitecaps  of  the  sea 

When  swoops  the  norther  o'er  the  deep  and  sings 

Mad  music  in  the  hemlocks,  and  for  me 

A  litany  of  joy  and  hope  and  praise, 

Sweet  to  the  man  who  knows  laborious  days. 

The  wild  hawk  here  is  playmate  of  my  thought. 
Like  him  I  soar,  upon  as  eager  wings, 
And  something  of  his  liberty  have  caught, 
The  simple  pleasure  in  material  things, 
Unvexed,  in  thoughtless  joy  a  child  to  be, 
The  moment's  friend  of  all  the  eye  can  see. 


THE    COMFORT    OF    THE    HILLS 

Kind  to  the  dreamer  is  this  solitude. 
Fair  courtesies  of  silence  wait  to  know 
What  hopes  are  flattering  a  poet  mood, 
Stirred  by  frail  ecstasies  that  come  and  go, 
Like  birds  that  let  the  quivering  leaves  prolong 
The  broken  music  of  their  passing  song. 

Here  may  we  choose  what  company  shall  be  ours ; 

Here  bend  before  one  fair  divinity 

To  whose  dear  feet  we  bring  the  spirit-flowers, 

Fragments  of  song,  stray  waifs  of  poetry, 

The  orphans  of  dead  dreams,  more  sweet  than  aught 

Won  by  decisive  days  of  sober  thought. 

Day-dreams  that  feed  the  folly  of  the  fool, 
The  wisdom  of  the  wise,  the  hour  endears; 
Despite  the  discipline  of  life's  stern  school, 
And  the  gray  quiet  of  monastic  years, 
I  sit,  companioned  by  life's  young  desires, 
And  warm  my  fancies  at  yon  sunset  fires. 

For  't  is  the  children's  hour,  and  I,  the  child, 
Self-credulous,  am  pleased  myself  to  tell 
Stories  that  have  no  ending,  ventures  wild 
O'er  chartless  oceans  to  glad  isles  where  dwell 
Loves  that  no  bitter  debt  to  time  shall  pay, 
Loves  that  to-morrow  shall  be  as  to-day. 

Ay,  't  is  enchantment's  hour.     A  herald  star 
Marshals  the  silent  armies  of  the  night. 
The  eastward  scarlet  frets  the  waves.     Afar 
Fades  in  the  pallid  west  a  violet  light, 
And  murmurs  of  the  tide  rise  up  to  me, 
Huge  breathing  of  the  sea's  immensity. 


39°  THE    COMFORT    OF   THE    HILLS 

Among  the  hills  I  know  a  dreaming  lake 
No  wind  disturbs,  and  drowsily  it  seems 
The  pictured  stillness  to  itself  to  take. 
All  day  it  sleeps,  and  then  at  evening  dreams 
Brown  twilight  shadows, —  till  it  dreams  at  dark 
A  silver  dream,  the  pale  moon's  crescent  bark. 
*     *     * 

There  is  a  hill-crest  where  the  dwarfish  forms 
Of  crippled  pines  a  scant  subsistence  win : 
Gnarled  by  long  battle  with  the  winter  storms, 
Scarred  cousins  of  their  stately  forest  kin, 
Whence  came  the  force  that  waged  victorious  strife 
For  the  mere  hold  upon  their  meagre  life? 

Companionable  folk  are  they;  at  ease 
Upon  the  rocks  their  wooden  elbows  rest. 
Something  they  hint  of  ancient  pleasantries ; 
Grim  burgher  soldiers  they,  who  take  with  zest 
Their  pension  of  the  sunshine,  half  aware 
Of  one  with  right  their  lazing  life  to  share. 

As  wearily  the  mountain  crest  I  gain, 
Mysterious  vigor  feels  the  freshened  mind, 
And  wide  horizons  gladden  eye  and  brain. 
Serenely  confident  I  wait  to  find 
Thoughts  that  no  clouded  hours  knew  to  guess 
Float  upward  to  the  light  of  consciousness. 

Here  truth  the  certainty  of  instinct  feels, 
When  joy  akin  to  awe  the  soul  acquires, 
And  beauty,  God's  interpreter,  reveals 
Something  of  Him  no  meaner  hour  inspires. 
Help  Thou  my  unbelief,  that  I  may  be 
By  Nature's  mother-hand  led  near  to  Thee. 


THE    COMFORT    OF    THE    HILLS  391 

Once,  all  there  was  of  beauty  on  the  earth 
Became  religion.     Love  was  but  a  prayer 
To  gentle  deities,  whose  sylvan  mirth 
Heard  man  or  maid,  at  dusk  of  eve,  aware 
Of  gods  who  shared  love's  piety,  and  of  faint 
Sweet  whispers  from  some  pagan  flower  saint. 

If  these  were  dreams,  I  envy  those  who  dreamed 

Into  the  world  long  dramas  of  belief, 

This  joyous  passion-play  of  gods  who  seemed 

To  be  so  near  to  human  joy  and  grief; 

Or  were  they  tender  yearnings  willed  by  Him 

Whose  creed  left  lonely  all  the  woodways  dim? 

If  I  have  lost  this  heritage  divine, 

Some  pentecostal  hour  may  give  to  me 

The  tongues  earth's  childhood  knew,  and  it  be  mine 

To  read  beyond  what  seems  reality. 

Grant  me  this  gift  of  wisdom's  fullest  flower, 

0  fair  Egeria  of  the  evening  hour. 

Lo,  in  the  twilight's  dim  confessional 

Come  aged  voices  from  this  ice-scarred  rock; 

1  hear  the  avalanche  in  thunder  fall, 
The  glacier's  many  voices,  and  the  shock 

When  from  these  granite  shoulders,  seaward  hurled, 
Fell  the  white  ruin  of  an  elder  world. 

My  summer  friends,  the  maples,  cease  to  shed 
Their  red  and  gold,  are  bare  and  gaunt  and  gray. 
In  changeless  quiet,  towering  overhead, 
Hemlock  and  pine  defy  the  autumn's  sway, 
The  wintry  winds.     To  them  the  call  of  spring 
A  gracious  autumn  with  the  birds  shall  bring. 


392  THE    COMFORT    OF    THE    HILLS 

If  time  might  hold  for  us  no  sad  surprise 
Of  autumn's  mournful  change,  what  joy  it  were, 
Earth-fed,  deep-rooted,  year  by  year  to  rise 
Where  thought  uplifted  breathes  serener  air. 
And  at  life's  ripest,  of  a  summer  day 
To  feel  the  lightning  fall  and  pass  away. 

Among  these  rifted  rocks  creep  stealthily 
Faint  dusking  shadows,  and  the  forest  air 
Stirs  when  the  topmost  leaves,  uneasily, 
A  moment  shiver  in  the  winds  that  bear 
Hoarse  murmurs  from  the  unrepentant  deep; 
Like  one  who  mutters  of  far  deaths  in  sleep. 

A  strange  supremacy  of  quietness 

Awaits  the  thoughtful  where,  in  wreckage  vast, 

These  riven  rocks  old  agonies  confess, 

The  half-told  story  of  a  dateless  past; 

Prophetic  dooms  of  change  the  soul  oppress, 

And  some  chill  sense  of  ancient  loneliness. 

Why  in  this  scene  my  truant  footsteps  found 
Should  come  to  me  the  urgent  thought  of  death? 
For  when  this  ruin  fell,  the  barren  ground 
Knew  naught  of  life,  nor  any  mortal  breath. 
Yet  generous  of  color  are  to-day 
These  moss-clad  rocks,  with  fern  and  lichen  gay. 

Alas,  vain  thought !     Death's  royal  loneliness 
Still  bids  the  voice  of  love  its  silence  share, 
Where,  in  that  land  of  grief  companionless, 
Familiar  things  a  far  remoteness  wear, 
And  futile  thoughts,  like  yearning  tendrils,  find 
No  hold  secure,  and  hope  and  faith  are  blind. 


THE    COMFORT   OF    THE    HILLS  393 

Yet  Nature  stands,  a  finger  on  her  lips, 

Glad  mother  of  mysterious  sympathy, 

Sure  as  the  light  that  through  the  greenery  slips, 

Far-winged  at  eve  with  loving  certainty, 

To  gild  these  glooming  rocks,  by  glaciers  worn, 

With  constant  promise  of  another  morn. 

If  Nature,  soulless,  knows  not  how  to  weep, 
Take  that  she  has  for  thee.     Wilt  know  how  much? 
Bring  here  thy  cares,  and  find  upon  the  steep 
Some  kingly  healing  in  the  wild  wind's  touch. 
The  best  of  love  and  life  is  mystery, — 
Take  thou  the  pine-trees'  benedicite ! 

The  years  that  come  as  friend  and  leave  as  foe, 
The  years  that  come  as  foes,  and  friends  depart, 
Leave  for  remembrance  more  of  joy  than  woe, 
All  memory  sifting  with  Time's  gentle  art, 
Till  He  who  guides  the  swallow's  wintry  wing 
Gives  to  our  grief-winged  love  as  sure  a  spring. 

The  mountain  summit  brings  no  bitter  thought ; 
And  in  my  glad  surrender  to  its  power, 
Familiar  spirits  come  to  me  unsought, 
But  unto  thee,  my  child,  the  twilight  hour, 
When  level  sun-shafts  of  the  waning  day 
Their  girdling  gold  upon  the  forest  lay. 

Here,  long  ago,  we  talked  or  silent  knew 

The  woodland  awe  of  things  about  to  be, 

And,  as  the  nearing  shadows  round  us  drew, 

Some  growing  sense  of  unreality. 

Ancestral  pagan  moods  of  far  descent 

That  thronged  the  peopled  woods  with  wonderment. 


394  AN    ODE   OF   BATTLES 

Art  with  me  now,  and  this  thy  gentle  hand? 
Or  is  it  that  love's  yearning  love  deceives, 
And  in  too  real  a  solitude  I  stand, 
Hearing  no  footfall  in  the  rustling  leaves, 
Sole  comrade  of  far  sorrows,  left  alone 
The  wakened  memory  of  a  dream  to  own? 

Slow  fades  the  light  of  day's  most  solemn  hour. 
The  autumn  leaves  are  drifting  overhead. 
In  vain  I  yearn  for  some  compelling  power 
To  keep  for  me  these  ever-living  dead. 
Peace,  peace,  sad  heart;  for  thee  a  gentle  breeze, 
God's  angelus,  is  sighing  in  the  trees. 

BAR  HARBOR,   September  1906. 


AN    ODE   OF   BATTLES 

GETTYSBURG    AND    SANTIAGO 

LONG  ages  past 

The  slow  ice  sledges  bore 

These  alien  rocks  from  some  far  other  shore 

Gray  witnesses  of  power 

In  some  prophetic  hour 

Dropped  on  the  glacier's  bed, 

Strange  burial-stones,  to  find  at  last 

Their  long-awaited  dead. 

Here,  as  if  to  mock  regret, 

Has  careless  nature  set 

The  wild  rose  and  the  violet; 


AN    ODE   OF   BATTLES  395 

For  what  to  her  is  battle's  iron  lot? 
She  has  no  memory  of  a  day 
When  man  had  ceased  to  slay, 
And  by  her  strife  his  war  is  infant  play; 
Yet  here  the  frail  forget-me-not 
Entreats  remembrance  of  what  death  may  gain: 
For  not  in  vain 
Upon  this  lone  hillside 
Uncounted  hopes  have  died; 
And  not  in  vain 
The  lordship  of  the  soul 
In  that  wild  strife 
Asked  an  heroic  dole, 
The  tribute  gift  of  life, 

While  homes  long  held  in  bondage  of  their  fears 
Heard  what  they  too  had  spent  and  wailed  in  tears, — 
The  loss  of  youth's  young  love  and  manhood's  remnant 
years. 


Weep  for  thy  many  dead, 

O  Northland,  weep ! 

Even  for  thy  triumph  weep ! 

Here  too  our  brothers  sleep; 

Not  we  alone  have  bled. 

Tears  !  tears  for  those  who  lost ! 

For  bitter  was  the  cost 

When  that  ripe  manhood  at  its  flood 

Ebbed  away  in  blood. 

Yet  who  beneath  the  shrouded  sun 

Upon  yon  battle-wearied  plain 

Could  know  they  too  had  won, 

And  had  not  died  in  vain? 


396  AN    ODE    OF    BATTLES 

Gone  the  days  of  lingering  hate ! 

Came  at  last  a  happier  fate 

That  welded  state  to  state, 

When  along  the  island  shore 

We  together  stood  once  more, 

And  the  levin  blight  and  thunder 

Were  strange  echoes  of  a  day 

When  Spain's  galleons  went  under. 

Or,  death-hunted,  fled  away, 

While  the  sturdy  gales  that  keep 

Guard  o'er  England,  beach  and  steep, 

Sped  the  billows  from  afar, 

Leaping  hounds  of  the  sea's  wild  war, 

And  set  them  on  the  track 

Where,  o'er  ruin  and  o'er  wrack, 

Shrouding  all 

Fell  the  fog's  gray  funeral  pall, 

And  the  sea-greed  took  its  toll 

Of  the  pride  of  Philip's  soul. 

Hark  and  hear,  ye  admirals  dead ! 
Comrades  of  the  burly  deep, 
Whatsoever  decks  ye  tread, 
Wheresoever  watch  ye  keep, — 
Hark !  the  channel  surges  still 
Roll  o'er  wrecks  ye  left  to  bide 
The  master  might  of  the  sea's  stern  will, 
Scourge  of  storm  and  stress  of  tide: 
When  upon  the  Spaniard's  flight 
Closed  in  shame  the  northern  night, 
Not  yours  alone  the  count  of  sorrow 
Ye  left  to  some  avenging  morrow: 
Far-sown  islands  west  and  east, 


AN    ODE   OF   BATTLES  397 

Thro'  one  long  revel  of  misrule, 
Reign  of  tyrant,  knave,  or  fool, — 
Cursed  too  the  bigot  and  the  priest. 
From  their  days  of  bitter  need, 
From  the  sea-lords  of  our  breed, 
To  the  patience  of  the  strong 
Fell  that  heritage  of  wrong. 
Rest  in  peace,  ye  captains  bold: 
When  the  tide  of  battle  rolled 
Thunderous  on  the  island  shore, 
To  thy  children's  hand  the  Lord 
Gave  for  judgment  doom  the  sword. 
And  at  last  forevermore 
On  those  haunted  Cuban  coasts 
That  long-gathering  debt  was  paid 
And  the  sad  and  silent  ghosts 
Of  unnumbered  wrongs  were  laid. 

Awake,  sad  Island  Sister !     Wake  to  be 

The  glad  young  child  of  liberty. 

The  storm  of  battle  wholesomely 

Has  swept  thy  borders  free. 

Ringed  with  the  azure  of  the  Carib  Sea, 

No  more  the  joy  of  thy  abounding  waves 

Shall  mock  a  land  of  slaves. 

i 

And  lo !  the  matchless  prize, 

Great  kingdoms  craved  with  eager  eyes, 

Was  ours  blood-bought. 

With  no  base  afterthought 

We  left  unransomed  and  complete 

Earth's  richest  jewel  at  fair  Freedom's  feet; 

Her  dream  of  hope  a  glad  reality; 


398  AN    ODE   OF    BATTLES 

Our  share  a  memory ! 

Ah,  never  since  the  lightning  of  gray  war 

In  other  lands  afar 

Dismembered  nations  smote,  and  justice  slept 

While  greed  her  plunder  kept, 

Has  conquest  left  no  shame 

Upon  the  victor's  name; 

But  here  at  last  from  war's  sad  field 

Proud  honor  bore  a  stainless  shield, 

And  o'er  our  silent  dead  the  air 

Throbbed  with  Freedom's  answered  prayer. 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 


A    DOCTOR'S    CENTURY 

READ    AT    THE    CENTENNIAL    DINNER    OF    THE    COLLEGE 
OF   PHYSICIANS    OF   PHILADELPHIA,    1887 

A  DOCTOR'S  century  dead  and  gone! 

Good-night  to  those  one  hundred  years, 
To  all  the  memories  they  bear 

Of  honest  help  for  pains  or  tears; 

To  them  that  like  St.  Christopher, 

When  North  and  South  were  sad  with  graves, 

Bore  the  true  Christ  of  charity 
Across  the  battles'  crimson  waves. 

Good-night  to  all  the  shining  line, 

Our  peerage, —  yes,  our  lords  of  thought; 

Their  blazonry,  unspotted  lives 
Which  all  the  ways  of  honor  taught. 
401 


4°2  A  DOCTOR'S  CENTURY 

A  gentler  word,  as  proud  a  thought, 
For  those  who  won  no  larger  prize 

Than  humble  days  well  lived  can  win 
From  thankful  hearts  and  weeping  eyes. 

Too  grave  my  song;  a  lighter  mood 
Shall  bid  us  scan  our  honored  roll, 

For  jolly  jesters  gay  and  good, 
Who  healed  the  flesh  and  charmed  the  soul, 

And  took  their  punch,  and  took  the  jokes 
Would  make  our  prudish  conscience  tingle, 

Then  bore  their  devious  lanterns  home, 
And  slept,  or  heard  the  night-bell  jingle. 

Our  Century  's  dead ;  God  rest  his  soul ! 

Without  a  doctor  or  a  nurse, 
Without  a  "  post,"  without  a  dose, 

He  's  off  on  Time's  old  rattling  hearse. 

What  sad  disorder  laid  him  out 

To  all  pathologists  is  dim; 
An  intercurrent  malady, — 

Bacterium  chronos,  finished  him ! 

Our  new-born  century,  pert  and  proud, 

Like  some  young  doctor  fresh  from  college, 

Disturbs  our  prudent  age  with  doubts 
And  misty  might  of  foggy  knowledge. 

Ah,  but  to  come  again  and  share 

The  gains  his  calmer  days  shall  store, 

For  them  that  in  a  hundred  years 

Shall  see  our  "  science  grown  to  more," 


MINERVA    MEDICA  4°3 

Perchance  as  ghosts  consultant  we 
May  stand  beside  some  fleshly  fellow, 

And  marvel  what  on  earth  he  means, 

When  this  new  century's  old  and  mellow. 

Take  then  the  thought  that  wisdom  fades, 
That  knowledge  dies  of  newer  truth, 

That  only  duty  simply  done 
Walks  always  with  the  step  of  youth. 

A  grander  morning  floods  our  skies 
With  higher  aims  and  larger  light; 

Give  welcome  to  the  century  new, 
And  to  the  past  a  glad  good-night. 


MINERVA   MEDICA 

VERSES    READ    AT    THE    DINNER    COMMEMORATIVE    OF 

THE  FIFTIETH  YEAR  OF  THE  DOCTORATE  OF 

D.   HAYES  AGNEW,   M.  D.,  APRIL  6,    l888 

GOOD   CHAIRMAN,    BROTHERS,    FRIENDS,   AND   GUESTS, — 

all  ye  who  come  with  praise 

To  honor  for  our  ancient  guild  a  life  of  blameless  days, 
If  from  the  well-worn  road  of  toil  I  step  aside  to  find 
A  poet's  roses  for  the  wreath  your  kindly  wishes  bind, 
Be  certain  that  their  fragrance  types,  amid  your  laurel 

leaves, 
The  gentle  love  a  tender  heart  in  duty's  chaplet  weaves. 


4°4  MINERVA    MEDICA 

I    can't    exactly   set   the   date, —  the    Chairman   he   will 

know, — 

But  it  was  on  a  chilly  night,  some  month  or  two  ago. 
Within,  the  back-log  warmed  my  toes ;  without,  the  frozen 

rain, 

Storm-driven  by  the  angry  wind,  clashed  on  my  window- 
pane. 
I  lit  a  pipe,  stirred  up  the  fire,  and,  dry  with  thirst  for 

knowledge, 

Plunged  headlong  in  an  essay  by  a  Fellow  of  the  College. 
But,  sir,  I  've  often  seen  of  late  that  this  especial  thirst 
Is  not  of  all  its  varied  forms  the  keenest  or  the 

worst. 
At   all    events,   that   gentleman  —  that   pleasant    College 

Fellow  — 
He  must  have  been  of  all  of  us  the  juiciest  and  most 

mellow. 
You  ask  his  name,  degree,  and  fame;  you  want  to  know 

that  rare  man  ? 
It  was  n't  you, —  nor  you, —  nor  you, —  no,  sir,  't  was  not 

the  Chairman ! 
For  minutes  ten  I  drank  of  him ;  quenched  was  my  ardent 

thirst ; 
Another  minute,  and  my  veins  with  knowledge,  sir,  had 

burst ; 
A  moment  more,   my  head   fell  back,  my   lazy  eyelids 

closed, 

And  on  my  lap  that  Fellow's  book  at  equal  peace  re 
posed. 
Then  I  remembered  me  the  night  that  essay  first  was 

read, 
And  how  we  thought  it  could  n't  all  have  come  from  one 

man's  head. 


MINERVA    MEDICA  4O5 

At  nine  the  College  heard  a  snore  and  saw  the  Chairman 

start,— 

A  snore  as  of  an  actor  shy  rehearsing  for  his  part. 
At  ten,  a  shameless  chorus  around  the  hall  had  run, 
The  Chairman  dreamed  a  feeble  joke,  and  said  the  noes 

had  won. 
At  twelve  the  Treasurer  fell  asleep,  the  wakeful  Censors 

slumbered, 

The  Secretary's  minutes  grew  to  hours  quite  unnumbered. 
At  six  A.  M.  that  Fellow  paused,  perchance  a  page  to 

turn, 
And   up    I    got,    and    cried,    "  I    move    the    College    do 

adjourn !  " 
They  didn't,  sir;  they  sat  all  day.     It  made  my  flesh  to 

creep. 
All  night  they  sat ;  —  that  could  n't  be.     Goodness  !  was 

I  asleep? 
Was  I  asleep?    With  less  effect  that  Fellow  might  have 

tried 

Codeia,  Morphia,  Urethan,  Chloral,  Paraldehyde. 
In  vain  my  servant  called  aloud,  "  Sir,  here  's  a  solemn 

letter 
To  say  they  want  a  song  from  you,  for  lack  of  some  one 

better. 
The  Chairman  says  his  man  will  wait,  while  you  sit  down 

and  write; 
He  says  he's  not  in  any  haste, —  and  make  it  something 

light ; 

He  says  you  need  n't  vex  yourself  to  try  to  be  effulgent, 
Because,  he  says,  champagne  enough  will  keep  them  all 

indulgent." 

I  slept  —  at  least  I  think  I  slept  —  an  hour  by  estimation, 
But  if  I  slept,  I  must  have  had  unconscious  cerebration, 


406  MINERVA    MEDICA 

For  on  my  desk,  the  morrow  morn,  I  found  this  ordered 

verse; 
Pray  take  it  as  you  take  your  wife, — "  for  better  or  for 

worse." 

A  golden  wedding:  fifty  earnest  years 

This  spring-tide  day  from  that  do  sadly  part, 

When,  'mid  a  learned  throng,  one  shy,  grave  lad, 
Half  conscious,  won  the  Mistress  of  our  Art. 

Still  at  his  side  the  tranquil  goddess  stood, 
Unseen  of  men,  and  claimed  the  student  boy; 

Touched  with  her  cool,  sweet  lips  his  ruddy  cheek, 
And  bade  him  follow  her  through  grief  and  joy. 

"  Be  mine,"  she  whispered  in  his  startled  ear, 
"  Be  mine  to-day,  as  Pare  once  was  mine; 

Like  Hunter  mine,  and  all  who  nobly  won 
The  fadeless  honors  of  that  shining  line. 

"  Be  mine,"  she  said,  "  the  calm  of  honest  eyes, 
The  steadfast  forehead,  and  the  constant  soul; 

Mine  the  firm  heart  on  simple  duty  bent, 
And  mine  the  manly  gift  of  self-control. 

"  Not  in  my  service  is  the  harvest  won 
That  gilds  the  child  of  barter  and  of  trade; 

That  steady  hand,  that  ever-pitying  touch, 
Not  in  my  helping  shall  be  thus  repaid. 

"  But  I  will  take  you  where  the  great  have  gone, 
And  I  will  set  your  feet  in  honor's  ways; 

Friends  I  will  give,  and  length  of  crowded  years, 
And  crown  your  manhood  with  a  nation's  praise. 


MINERVA    MEDICA  4°7 

"  These  will  I  give,  and  more ;  the  poor  man's  home, 
The  anguished  sufferer  in  the  clutch  of  pain, 

The  camp,  the  field,  the  long,  sad,  waiting  ward, 
Shall  seek  your  kindly  face,  nor  seek  in  vain; 

"  For,  as  the  sculptor-years  shall  chisel  deep 
The  lines  of  pity  'neath  the  brow  of  thought, 

Below  your  whitening  hair  the  hurt  shall  read 

How  well  you  learned  what  I  my  best  have  taught." 

The  busy  footsteps  of  your  toiling  stand 

Upon  the  noisy  century's  sharp  divide, 
And  at  your  side,  to-night,  I  see  her  still, 

The  gracious  woman,  strong  and  tender-eyed. 

O  stately  Mistress  of  our  sacred  Art, 

Changeless  and  beautiful  and  wise  and  brave, 

Full  fifty  years  have  gone  since  first  your  lips 
To  noblest  uses  pledged  that  forehead  grave. 

As  round  the  board  our  merry  glasses  rang, 
His  golden-wedding  chimes  I  heard  to-night; 

We  know  its  offspring;  lo,  from  sea  to  sea 
His  pupil-children  bless  his  living  light. 

What  be  the  marriage-gifts  that  we  can  give? 

What  lacks  he  that  on  well-used  years  attends? 
All  that  we  have  to  give  are  his  to-day, — 

Love,  honor,  and  obedience,  troops  of  friends. 


408  VERSES 


VERSES 

READ      ON      THE      PRESENTATION      BY      S.     WEIR      MITCkELL 
TO     THE      PHILADELPHIA      COLLEGE     OF      PHYSICIANS      OF 

SARAH   w.   WHITMAN'S   PORTRAIT  OF  OLIVER  WENDELL 

HOLMES,  M.  D. 

WE  call  them  great  who  have  the  magic  art 

To  summon  tears  and  stir  the  human  heart, 

With  fictive  grief  to  bring  the  soul  annoy, 

And  leave  a  dew-drop  in  the  rose  of  joy. 

A  nobler  purpose  had  the  Masters  wise 

Who  from  your  walls  look  down  with  kindly  eyes. 

Theirs  the  firm  hand  and  theirs  the  ready  brain 

Strong  for  the  battle  with  disease  and  pain. 

Large  were  their  lives :  these  scholars,  gentle,  brave, 

Knew  all  of  man  from  cradle  unto  grave. 

What  note  of  torment  had  they  failed  to  hear? 

All  grief's  stern  gamut  knew  each  pitying  ear. 

Nor  theirs  the  useless  sympathy  that  stands 

Beside  the  suffering  with  defenceless  hands; 

Divinely  wise,  their  pity  had  the  art 

To  teach  the  brain  the  ardor  of  the  heart. 

These  left  a  meaner  for  a  nobler  George ; 

These  trod  the  red  snows  by  the  Valley  Forge, 

Saw  the  wild  birth-throes  of  a  nation's  life, 

The  long-drawn  misery  and  the  doubtful  strife: 

Yea,  and  on  darker  fields  they  left  their  dead 

Where  grass-grown  streets  heard  but  the  bearer's 

tread,     - 

While  the  sad  death-roll  of  those  fatal  days 
Left  small  reward  beyond  the  poor  man's  praise. 


VERSES  409 

Lo !  Shadowy  greetings  from  each  canvas  come, 

Lips  seem  to  move  now  for  a  century  dumb: 

From  tongues  long  hushed  the  sound  of  welcome  falls, 

"  Place,  place  for  Holmes  upon  these  honored  walls." 

The  lights  are  out,  the  festal  flowers  fade, 

Our  guests  are  gone,  the  great  hall  wrapped  in  shade. 

Lone  in  the  midst  this  silent  picture  stands, 

Ringed  with  the  learning  of  a  score  of  lands. 

Fromy  dusty  tomes  in  many  a  tongue  I  hear 

A  gentle  Babel, — "  Welcome,  Brother  dear. 

Yea,  though  Apollo  won  thy  larger  hours, 

And  stole  our  fruit,  and  only  left  us  flowers, 

The  poet's  rank  thy  title  here  completes  — 

Doctor  and  Poet, —  so  were  Goldsmith, —  Keats." 

The  voices  failing  murmur  to  an  end 

With  "Welcome,  Doctor,  Scholar,  Poet,  Friend." 

In  elder  days  of  quiet  wiser  folks, 

When  the  great  Hub  had  not  so  many  spokes, 

Two  wandering  gods,  upon  the  Common,  found 

A  weary  schoolboy  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

Swift  to  his  brain  their  eager  message  went, 

Swift  to  his  heart  each  ardent  claim  was  sent: 

"  Be  mine,"  Minerva  cried.     "  This  tender  hand 

Skilled  in  the  art  of  arts  shall  understand 

With  magic  touch  the  demon  pain  to  lay. 

From  skill  to  skill  and  on  to  clearer  day 

Far  through  the  years  shall  fare  that  ample  brain 

To  read  the  riddles  of  disease  and  pain." 

"  Nay,  mine  the  boy,"  Apollo  cried  aloud, 

"  His  the  glad  errand,  beautiful  and  proud, 

To  wing  the  arrows  of  delightful  mirth, 

To  slay  with  jests  the  sadder  things  of  earth. 


410  VERSES 

At  his  gay  science  melancholy  dies, 

At  his  clear  laugh  each  morbid  fancy  flies. 

Rich  is  the  quiver  I  shall  give  his  bow, 

The  eagle's  pinion  some  bold  shafts  shall  know; 

Swift  to  its  mark  the  angry  arrow-song 

Shall  find  the  centre  of  a  nation's  wrong; 

Or  in  a  people's  heart  one  tingling  shot 

Pleads  not  in  vain  against  the  war-ship's  lot. 

Yea,  I  will  see  that  for  a  gentler  flight 

The  dove's  soft  feathers  send  his  darts  aright 

When  smiles  and  pathos,  kindly  wedded,  chant 

The  plaintive  lay  of  that  unmarried  aunt; 

Or  sails  his  Nautilus  the  sea  of  time, 

Blown  by  the  breezes  of  immortal  rhyme, 

Or  with  a  Godspeed  from  her  poet's  brain, 

Sweet  Clemence  trips  adown  the  Rue  de  Seine. 

The  humming-bird  shall  plume  the  quivering  song, 

Blithe,  gay,  and  restless,  never  dull  or  long, 

Where  gaily  passionate  his  soul  is  set 

To  sing  the  Katydid's  supreme  regret, 

Or  creaking  jokes,  through  never-ending  days, 

Rolls  the  quaint  story  of  the  Deacon's  chaise. 

Away  with  tears !     When  this  glad  poet  sings, 

The  angel  Laughter  spreads  her  broadest  wings. 

By  land  and  sea  where'er  St.  George's  cross 

And  the  starred  banner  in  the  breezes  toss, 

The  merry  music  of  his  wholesome  mirth 

Sends  rippling  smiles  around  our  English  earth." 

"Not  mine,"  Minerva  cried,  "to  spoil  thy  joy; 
Divide  the  honors, —  let  us  share  the  boy !  " 

April  1892. 


TO    GEORGE    BANCROFT,    AGED   86 


A    DECANTER    OF    MADEIRA,    AGED    86,     TO 
GEORGE  BANCROFT,  AGED  86 

GREETING : 


GOOD  master,  you  and  I  were  born 
In  "  Teacup  days  "  of  hoop  and  hood, 

And  when  the  silver  cue  hung  down, 

And  toasts  were  drunk,  and  wine  was  good ; 

ii 

When  kin  of  mine  (a  jolly  brood) 

From  sideboards  looked,  and  knew  full  well 
What  courage  they  had  given  the  beau, 

How  generous  made  the  blushing  belle. 


in 

Ah,  me !  what  gossip  could  I  prate 

Of  days  when  doors  were  locked  at  dinners ! 
Believe  me,  I  have  kissed  the  lips 

Of  many  pretty  .saints  —  or  sinners. 


IV 

Lip  service  have  I  done,  alack ! 

I  don't  repent,  but  come  what  may, 
What  ready  lips,  sir,  I  have  kissed, 

Be  sure  at  least  I  shall  not  say. 


412  TO    GEORGE    BANCROFT,    AGED   86 

v 

Two  honest  gentlemen  are  we, — 
I  Demi  John,  whole  George  are  you ; 

When  Nature  grew  us  one  in  years 
She  meant  to  make  a  generous  brew. 

VI 

She  bade  me  store  for  festal  hours 
The  sun  our  south-side  vineyard  knew; 

To  sterner  tasks  she  set  your  life, 
As  statesman,  writer,  scholar,  grew. 

VII 

Years  eighty-six  have  come  and  gone; 

At  last  we  meet.     Your  health  to-night. 
Take  from  this  board  of  friendly  hearts 

The  memory  of  a  proud  delight. 

VIII 

The  days  that  went  have  made  you  wise, 
There  's  wisdom  in  my  rare  bouquet. 

I  'm  rather  paler  than  I  was; 
And,  on  my  soul,  you  're  growing  gray. 


IX 

I  like  to  think,  when  Toper  Time 
Has  drained  the  last  of  me  and  you, 

Some  here  shall  say,  They  both  were  good, 
The  wine  we  drank,  the  man  we  knew. 

October  3,   1886,  Newport. 


THE    BIRTH    AND   DEATH    OF    PAIN        4*3 


THE  BIRTH  AND  DEATH  OF 
PAIN 

A  POEM  READ  OCTOBER  SIXTEENTH,  MDCCCXCVI,  AT  THE 
COMMEMORATION  OF  THE  FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE 
FIRST  PUBLIC  DEMONSTRATION  OF  SURGICAL  ANAESTHE 
SIA  IN  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  GENERAL  HOSPITAL,  BOSTON. 

FORGIVE  a  moment,  if  a  friend's  regret 
Delay  the  task  your  honoring  kindness  set. 
I  miss  one  face  to  all  men  ever  dear; 
I  miss  one  voice  that  all  men  loved  to  hear. 
How  glad  were  I  to  sit  with  you  apart, 
Could  the  dead  master  1  use  his  higher  art 
To  lift  on  wings  of  ever-lightsome  mirth 
The  burdened  muse  above  the  dust  of  earth, 
To  stamp  with  jests  the  heavy  ore  of  thought, 
To  give  a  day  with  proud  remembrance  fraught, 
The  vital  pathos  of  that  Holmes-spun  art 
Which  knew  so  well  to  reach  the  common  heart ! 
Alas !  for  me,  for  you,  that  fatal  hour ! 
Gone  is  the  master !     Ah  !  not  mine  the  power 
To  gild  with  jests  that  almost  win  a  tear 
The  thronging  memories  that  are  with  us  here. 

The  Birth  of  Pain  !     Let  centuries  roll  away ; 
Come  back  with  me  to  nature's  primal  day. 
What  mighty  forces  pledged  the  dust  to  life ! 
What  awful  will  decreed  its  silent  strife, 
Till  through  vast  ages  rose  on  hill  and  plain 
Life's  saddest  voice,  the  birthright  wail  of  pain ! 

i  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


4J4        THE   BIRTH    AND   DEATH    OF    PAIN 

The  keener  sense  and  ever-growing  mind 
Served  but  to  add  a  torment  twice  refined, 
As  life,  more  tender  as  it  grew  more  sweet, 
The  cruel  links  of  sorrow  found  complete 
When  yearning  love,  to  conscious  pity  grown, 
Felt  the  mad  pain-thrills  that  were  not  its  own. 

What  will  implacable,  beyond  our  ken, 

Set  this  stern  fiat  for  the  tribes  of  men? 

This  none  shall  'scape  who  share  our  human  fates: 

One  stern  democracy  of  anguish  waits 

By  poor  men's  cots,  within  the  rich  man's  gates. 

What  purpose  hath  it?     Nay,  thy  quest  is  vain: 

Earth  hath  no  answer.     If  the  baffled  brain 

Cries,  'T  is  to  warn,  to  punish  !  —  ah,  refrain. 

When  writhes  the  child  beneath  the  surgeon's  hand, 

What  soul  shall  hope  that  pain  to  understand? 

Lo !  Science  falters  o'er  the  hopeless  task, 

And  Love  and  Faith  in  vain  an  answer  ask, 

When  thrilling  nerves  demand  what  good  is  wrought 

Where  torture  clogs  the  very  source  of  thought. 

Lo !  Mercy,  ever  broadening  down  the  years, 

Seeks  but  to  count  a  lessening  sum  of  tears. 

The  rack  is  gone;  the  torture-chamber  lies 

A  sorry  show  for  shuddering  tourist  eyes. 

How  useless  pain  both  Church  and  State  have  learned 

Since  the  last  witch  or  patient  martyr  burned. 

Yet  still,  forever,  he  who  strove  to  gain 

By  swift  despatch  a  shorter  lease  for  pain 

Saw  the  grim  theatre,  and  'neath  his  knife 

Felt  the  keen  torture  in  the  quivering  life. 

A  word  for  him  who,  silent,  grave,  serene, 


THE   BIRTH    AND   DEATH    OF    PAIN        4*5 

The  thought-stirred  actor  on  that  tragic  scene, 
Recorded  pity  through  the  hand  of  skill, 
Heard  not  a  cry,  but,  ever  conscious,  still 
In  mercy  merciless,  swift,  bold,  intent, 
Felt  the  slow  moment  that  in  torture  went 
While  'neath  his  touch,  as  none  to-day  has  seen, 
In  anguish  shook  life's  agonized  machine. 
The  task  is  o'er;  the  precious  blood  is  stayed; 
But  double  price  the  hour  of  tension  paid. 
A  pitying  hand  is  on  the  sufferer's  brow  — 
"  Thank  God,  't  is  over  !  "     Few  who  face  me  now 
Recall  this  memory.     Let  the  curtain  fall; 
Far  gladder  days  shall  know  this  storied  hall ! 

Though   Science,  patient  as  the  fruitful  years, 
Still  taught  our  art  to  close  some  fount  of  tears, 
Yet  who  that  served  this  sacred  home  of  pain 
Could  e'er  have  dreamed  one  scarce-imagined  gain, 
Or  hoped  a  day  would  bring  his  feartful  art 
No  need  to  steel  the  ever-kindly  heart? 

So,  fled  the  years !  while  haply  here  or  there 

Some  trust  delusive  left  the  old  despair; 

Some  comet  thought  flashed  fitful  through  the  night, 

Prophetic  promise  of  the  coming  light; 

Then  radiant  morning  broke,  and  ampler  hope 

To  art  and  science  gave  illumined  scope. 

What  angel  bore  the  Christlike  gift  inspired! 
What  love  divine  with  noblest  courage  fired 
One  eager  soul  that  paid  in  bitter  tears 
For  the  glad  helping  of  unnumbered  fears, 
From  the  strange  record  of  creation  tore 


416        THE   BIRTH    AND    DEATH    OF    PAIN 

The  sentence  sad  each  sorrowing  mother  bore, 
Struck  from  the  roll  of  pangs  one  awful  sum, 
Made  pain  a  dream,  and  suffering  gently  dumb ! 
Whatever  triumphs  still  shall  hold  the  mind, 
Whatever  gift  shall  yet  enrich  mankind, 
Ah !  here  no  hour  shall  strike  through  all  the  years, 
No  hour  as  sweet  as  when  hope,  doubt,  and  fears, 
'Mid  deeping  stillness,  watched  one  eager  brain, 
With  Godlike  will,  decree  the  Death  of  Pain. 

How  did  we  thank  him?     Ah  !  no  joy-bells  rang, 

No  pseans  greeted,  and  no  poet  sang; 

No  cannon  thundered  from  the  guarded  strand 

This  mighty  victory  to  a  grateful  land ! 

We  took  the  gift  so  humbly,  simply  given, 

And,  coldly  selfish  —  left  our  debt  to  Heaven. 

How  shall  we  thank  him?     Hush !     A  gladder  hour 

Has  struck  for  him;  a  wiser,  juster  power 

Shall  know  full  well  how  fitly  to  reward 

The  generous  soul  that  found  the  world  so  hard. 

Oh,  fruitful  Mother,  you  whose  thronging  States 
Shall  deal  not  vainly  with  man's  changing  fates, 
Of  free-born  thought  or  war's  heroic  deeds, 
Much  have  your  proud  hands  given,  but  naught  exceeds 
This  heaven-sent  answer  to  the  cry  of  prayer, 
This  priceless  gift  which  all  mankind  may  share. 

A  solemn  hour  for  such  as  gravely  pause 

To  note  the  process  of  creation's  laws ! 

Ah,  surely,  He  whose  dark,  unfathomed  mind 

With  prescient  thought  the  scheme  of  life  designed, 

Who  bade  His  highest  creature  slowly  rise, 


A    PRAYER,    AFTER    SANTIAGO  4*7 

Spurred  by  sad  needs  and  lured  by  many  a  prize, 
Saw  with  a  God's  pure  joy  His  ripening  plan, 
His  highest  mercy  brought  by  man  to  man. 

1896. 


A  PRAYER,  AFTER  SANTIAGO 

"And  in  Thy  majesty  ride  prosperously,  because  of  truth 
and  meekness  and  righteousness;  and  Thy  right  hand  shall 
teach  Thee  terrible  things."— Psalm  xlv.  4. 

ALMIGHTY  GOD  !  eternal  source 

Of  every  arm  we  dare  to  wield, 

Be  Thine  the  thanks,  as  Thine  the  force, 

On  reeling  deck  or  stricken  field; 

The  thunder  of  the  battle  hour 

Is  but  the  whisper  of  Thy  power. 

Thine  is  our  wisdom,  Thine  our  might; 
Oh,  give  us,  more  than  strength  and  skill, 
The  calmness  born  of  sense  of  right, 
The  steadfast  heart,  the  quiet  will 
To  keep  the  awful  tryst  with  death, 
To  know  Thee  in  the  cannon's  breath. 

By  Thee  was  given  the  thought  that  bowed 
All  hearts  upon  the  victor  deck, 
When,  high  above  the  battle-shroud, 
The  white  flag  fluttered  o'er  the  wreck, 
And  Thine  the  hand  that  checked  the  cheer 
In  that  wild  hour  of  death  and  fear ! 


BOOKS   AND    THE    MAN 

O  Lord  of  love !  be  Thine  the  grace 
To  teach,  amid  the  wrath  of  war, 
Sweet  pity  for  a  humbled  race, 
Some  thought  of  those  in  lands  afar 
Where  sad-eyed  women  vainly  yearn 
For  them  that  never  shall  return. 

Great  Master  of  earth's  mighty  school, 
Whose  children  are  of  every  land, 
Inform  with  love  our  alien  rule, 
And  stay  us  with  Thy  warning  hand 
If,  tempted  by  imperial  greed, 
We,  in  Thy  watchful  eyes,  exceed; 

That  in  the  days  to  come,  O  Lord, 
When  we  ourselves  have  passed  away, 
And  all  are  gone  who  drew  the  sword, 
The  children  of  our  breed  may  say, 
These  were  our  sires,  who,  doubly  great, 
Could  strike,  yet  spare  the  fallen  state. 


BOOKS  AND  THE  MAN  *• 

WHEN  the  years  gather  round  us  like  stern  foes 
That  give  no  quarter,  and  the  ranks  of  love 

Break  here  and  there,  untouched  there  still  abide 
Friends  whom  no  adverse  fate  can  wound  or 
move: 

i  William  Osier.    Read   to   the   Charaka   Club,   March  4, 
1905. 


BOOKS   AND   THE    MAN  4*9 

A  deathless  heritage,  for  these  are  they 
Who  neither  fail  nor  falter;  we,  alas  I 

Can  hope  no  more  of  friendship  than  to  fill 
The  mortal  hour  of  earth  and,  mortal,  pass. 

Steadfast  and  generous,  they  greet  us  still 
Through  every  fortune  with  unchanging 
looks, 

Unasked  no  counsel  give,  are  silent  folk; 
The  careless-minded  lightly  call  them  books. 

Of  the  proud  peerage  of  the  mind  are  they, 
Fair,  courteous  gentlemen  who  wait  our  will 

When  come  the  lonely  hours  the  scholar  loves, 
And  glows  the  hearth  and  all  the  house  is  still. 

Wilt  choose  for  guest  the  good  old  doctor 
knight, 

Quaint,  learned  and  odd,  or  very  wisely  shrewd, 
Or  with  Dan  Chaucer  win  a  quiet  hour 

Far  from  our  noisy  century's  alien  mood? 

Wilt  sail  great  seas  on  rhythmic  lyrics  borne, 
In  the  high  company  of  gallant  souls, 

Where,  ringed  with  stately  death,  proud  Grenville 

lies, 
Or  the  far  thunder  of  the  Armada  rolls? 

Wilt  call  that  English  lad  Fabricius  taught 
And  Padua  knew,  and  that  heroic  soul  — 

Our  brave  Vesalius?     Long  the  list  of 

friends, 
Far  through  the  ages  runs  that  shining  roll. 


420  BOOKS    AND    THE    MAN 

How  happy  he  who,  native  to  their  tongue, 
A  mystic  language  reads  between  the  lines : 

Gay,  gallant  fancies,  songs  unheard  before, 
Ripe  with  the  worldless  wisdom  love  divines; 

Rich  with  dumb  records  of  long  centuries  past, 
The  viewless  dreams  of  poet,  scholar,  sage; 

What  marginalia  of  unwritten  thought 

With  glowing  rubrics  deck  the  splendid  page ! 

Some  ghostly  presence  haunts  the  lucid  phrase 
Where  Bacon  pondered  o'er  the  words  we  scan. 

Here  grave  Montaigne  with  cynic  wisdom 

played, 
And  lo,  the  book  becomes  for  us  a  man  ! 

Shall  we  not  find  more  dear  the  happy  page 
Where  Lamb,  forgetting  sorrow,  loved  to  dwell, 

Or  that  which  won  from  Thackeray's  face  a 

smile, 
Or  lit  the  gloom  of  Raleigh's  prison  cell? 

And  if  this  gentle  company  has  made 

The  comrade  heart  to  pain  an  easier  prey, 

They,  too,  were  heirs  of  sorrow ;  well  they  know 
With  what  brave  thoughts  to  charm  thy  cares 
away. 

And  shouldst  thou  crave  an  hour's  glad  reprieve 
From  mortal  cares  that  mock  the  mind's  control, 

For  thee  Cervantes  laughs  the  world  away! 
What  priest  is  wiser  than  our  Shakespeare's 
soul? 


BOOKS    AND   THE    MAN  421 

Show  me  his  friends  and  I  the  man  shall  know ; 

This  wiser  turn  a  larger  wisdom  lends: 
Show  me  the  books  he  loves  and  I  shall  know 

The  man  far  better  than  through  mortal 
friends. 

Do  you  perchance  recall  when  first  we  met, 
And  gaily  winged  with  thought  the  flying 

night, 
And  won  with  ease  the  friendship  of  the 

mind?  — 
I  like  to  call  it  friendship  at  first  sight. 

And  then  you  found  with  us  a  second  home, 
And,  in  the  practice  of  life's  happiest  art, 

You  little  guessed  how  readily  you  won 
The  added  friendship  of  the  open  heart. 

And  now  a  score  of  years  has  fled  away 
In  noble  service  of  life's  highest  ends, 

And  my  glad  capture  of  a  London  night 
Disputes  with  me  a  continent  of  friends. 

But  you  and  I  may  claim  an  older  date, 
The  fruitful  amity  of  forty  years, — 

A  score  for  me,  a  score  for  you,  and  so 
How  simple  that  arithmetic  appears ! 

But  are  old  friends  the  best?     What  age,  I  ask, 
Must  friendships  own  to  earn  the  title  old? 

Shall  none  seem  old  save  he  who  won  or  lost 
When  fists  were  up  or  ill-kept  wickets 
bowled? 


422         RETURN   OF   CONFEDERATE   FLAGS 

Are  none  old  friends  who  never  blacked  your 
eyes? 

Or  with  a  shinny  whacked  the  youthful  shin? 
Or  knew  the  misery  of  the  pliant  birch? 

Or,  apple-tempted,  shared  in  Adam's  sin? 

Grave  Selden  saith,  and  quotes  the  pedant  King, 
Old  friends  are  best,  and,  like  to  well-worn 
shoes, 

The  oldest  are  the  easiest.     Not  for  me ! 
The  easy  friend  is  not  the  friend  I  choose. 

But  if  the  oldest  friends  are  best  indeed, 
I  'd  have  the  proverb  otherwise  expressed  — 

Friends  are  not  best  because  they  're  merely  old, 
But  only  old  because  they  proved  the  best. 


ON  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CONFEDERATE 
FLAGS  BY  CONGRESS 

WE  loved  the  wild  clamor  of  battle, 

The  crash  of  the  musketry's  rattle, 

The  bugle  and  drum. 

We  have  drooped  in  the  dust,  long  and  lonely; 
The  blades  that  flashed  joy  are  rust  only, 

The  far-rolling  war-music  dumb. 

God  rest  the  true  souls  in  death  lying, 
For  whom  overhead  proudly  flying 

We   challenged  the   foe. 
The  storm  of  the  charge  we  have  breasted, 


RETURN    OF    CONFEDERATE    FLAGS         423 

On  the  hearts  of  our  dead  we  have  rested, 
In  the  pride  of  a  day,  long  ago. 

Ah,  surely  the  good  of  God's  making 
Shall  answer  both  those  past  awaking 

And  life's  cry  of  pain; 
But  we  never  more  shall  be  tossing 
On  surges  of  battle  where  crossing 

The  swift-flying  death-bearers  rain. 

Again  in  the  wind  we  are  streaming, 

Again  with  the  war-lust  are  dreaming 

The  call  of  the  shell. 
What  gray  heads  look  up  at  us  sadly? 
Are  these  the  stern  troopers  who  madly 
Rod  straight   at  the  battery's  hell? 

Nay,  more  than  the  living  have  found  us, 
Pale  spectres  of  battle  surround  us; 

The  gray  line  is  dressed. 
Ye  hear  not,  but  they  who  are  bringing 
Your  symbols  of  honor  are  singing 

The  song  of  death's  bivouac  rest. 

Blow  forth  on  the  south  wind  to  greet  us, 
O  star  flag !  once  eager  to  meet  us 

When  war-lines  were  set. 
Go  carry  to  far  fields  of  glory 
The  soul-stirring  thrill  of  the  story, 

Of  days  when  in  anger  we  met. 

Ah,  well  that  we  hung  in  the  churches 
In  quiet,  where  God  the  heart  searches, 
That  under  us  met 


424       IN    HONOUR   OF   WILLIAM    H.    WELCH 

Men  heard  through  the  murmur  of  praying 
The  voice  of  the  torn  banners  saying, 
"  Forgive,  but  ah,  never  forget." 

April    1906 


REMARKS  OF  DR.  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL  AT  THE 

DINNER  IN  HONOR  OF  WILLIAM  H. 

WELCH,  2  APRIL,  1910 

DR.  MITCHELL:  Mr.  Chairman,  Gentlemen,  and  You, 
my  Friend,  the  Sacrificial  Victim  of  the  After-Dinner 
Hour:  Travel  in  strange  lands  is  the  more  pleasant  for 
knowledge  of  the  language  spoken,  and  it  was  the  fact  of 
my  lack  of  tongues  which  made  me  doubt  how  fit  I  was 
to  appear  on  this  occasion,  where,  as  I  learned  somewhat 
appalled,  everybody  was  expected  to  talk  Welch.  To 
stumble  bewildered,  an  intellectual  tenderfoot,  in  the 
learned  land  of  Johns  Hopkins,  might  certainly  give  any 
man  pause,  but  in  the  court  of  wisdom  there  must  be 
of  necessity  a  fool,  and  so  I  accept  the  position  of  the 
provider  of  sentimental  folly  and  make  my  little  venture. 

'T  is  said  that  hovering  near  your  infant  couch 
The  fairy  forms  of  Art  and  Science  flew 

In  generous  counsel  o'er  the  golden  gifts 
They  bade  a  joyous  future  pledge  to  you. 

And  if,  they  said,  your  life  shall  fail  to  give 
What  Bacon  called  the  "  hostages  to  fate," 

Unnumbered  friends  shall  challenge  love  with  love, 
And  ever  through  your  happy  hours  elate. 


IN    HONOR   OF   WILLIAM    H.    WELCH        425 

Fair  Nature,  coyest  of  all  maids  that  hold 
Reluctant  mysteries  from  their  lovers  dear, 

Shall  on  victorious  quests  divinely  smile 
And  tell  her  secrets  to  your  listening  ear. 

Not  yours  shall  be,  companioned  by  the  stars, 

To  soar  through  space  on  thought's  ambitious  wings 

To  worlds  unseen;  nay,  yours  shall  be  to  roam 
That  wondrous  other  realm  of  little  things. 

There,  half  unread,  the  ever  less  and  less 
Lost  in  the  lessening  less,  eludes  our  sight 

In  space  as  sunless  and  more  dark  with  fate 
Than  are  the  baleful  planets -of  the  night. 

There  shall  you  stand  upon  the  twilight  verge, 
Where  fades  the  sight  of  each  material  thing, 

And  baffled,  wonder,  what  an  hundred  years 
To  other  eyes  than  ours  may  haply  bring. 

A  lilliputian  world  to  you  we  give, 

Where  deadly  swarm  the  grim  bacterial  blights, 
With  amboceptors,  strange  malignant  priests, 

For  demon  marriage  with  satanic  rites. 

Here  stegomyia  and  anopheles 

Are  huge  behemoths  of  this  lesser  sphere 

Where  gay  spirilla  wriggle  lively  tails, 

And  vexed  erythrocytes  grow  pale  with  fear. 

"  Be  these  your  friends,"  the  flitting  fairies  cried, 
"  But  who  is  this  that  leads  a  pirate  crew? 

''  Bacterium  chronos  !     Get  you  gone  from  hence, 
"  Or  hungry  leucocytes  we'll  set  on  you !  " 


IN    HONOR   OF   WILLIAM    H.    WELCH 

A  truce  to  folly.     Long  ago  for  you 

Has  rung  the  fatal  hour  of  Osier's  jest: 

Still  young,  the  merry  smile,  the  glowing  mind, 
No  least  sad  failure  ever  yet  confessed. 

Life's  summer  overflow  reserves  for  you 

The  golden  days  of  lingering  life's  September, 

October  loitering  waits  for  you,  my  friend, 
And  summer  haunted  glories  of  November. 

Perhaps  Johns  Hopkins  has  some  secret  charm 
That  lets  professors  very  neatly  swindle 

The  robber  time  and  feel  enfeebling  days 

Toward  youthful  vigor  quite  reversely  dwindle ! 

Alas,  a  most  appalling  doom  awaits !  — 

A  pedriatic  clinic  at  the  end  — 
Pertussis,  measles,  teeth  to  cut,  and  then 

The  bottle,—  but  which  bottle  ?     Ah  !  my  friend, 

We'll  ask  of  Kelly,  he  will  surely  know 

When  comes  at  last  your  latest,  earliest  year, 

With  all  of  physiology  at  fault 

How  shall  you  ever  gently  disappear? 

Far  be  the  day  for  you.     One  grief  I  own; 

What  science  won  my  art  has  something  cost 
Since  the  clear  mind  and  ever-ready  smile 

Were  to  the  bedside  visit  sadly  lost. 

Ave  et  vale!  O  magister,  take 

Greeting  and  blessing  from  our  greatest  soul ! 
The  rippling  sweetness  of  his  echoing  verse 

I  seem  to  hear  from  that  far  century  roll. 


TO   ABRAHAM    JACOBI,    M.D. 

Too  poor  my  rhyme  to  fitly  entertain 
The  stately  splendor  of  the  Latin  line; 

Ah !  happy  he  to  whom  this  greeting  went  — 
Thy  spirit-kinsman,  Harvey  —  makes  it  thine  ! 

" Vir  doctissime! 
Humanissime! 
Vale  mi'  Amantissimet 
THUS  ex  anima." 


TO  ABRAHAM  JACOBI,  M.D. 
At  the  dinner  given  to  celebrate  his  seventieth  birthday. 

No  honors  hath  the  State  for  you  whose  life 
From  youth  to  age  has  known  one  single  end. 

Take  from  our  lips  two  well-won  titles  now, 
Magister  et  Amicus  —  Master,  Friend. 

Here  on  the  summit  of  attainment's  peak, 

Far  from  the  rugged  path  you  knew  to  climb, 

Take,  with  our  thanks  for  high  example  set, 
The  palm  of  honor  in  this  festal  time. 

Constant  and  brave,  in  no  ignoble  cause 

The  hopes  of  freedom  armed  your  sturdy  youth ; 

As  true  and  brave  in  these  maturer  years 
Your  ardent  struggle  in  the  cause  of  truth. 

Nor  prison  bars,  nor  yet  the  lonely  cell, 

Could  break  your  vigor  of  unconquered  will ; 

And  the  gray  years  which  build  as  cruel  walls 
Have  found  and  left  you  ever  victor  still. 


TO    ABRAHAM    JACOBI,    M.D. 

Ave  Magister !  Take  from  us  to-night 

The  well-earned  praise  of  all  who  love  our  art 

For  this  long  season  of  unending  work, 

For  strength  of  brain,  and  precious  wealth  of  heart. 

Much  gave  your  busy  hand;  but,  ah,  far  more, 
The  gallant  life  that  taught  men  how  to  meet 

Unfriended  exile,  sorrow,  want,  and  all 

That  crush  the  weak  with  failure  and  defeat. 

We  gave  you  here  a  home;  you  well  have  paid 
With  many  gifts  proud  freedom's  generous  hand 

That  bade  you  largely  breathe  a  freer  air, 
And  made  you  welcome  to  a  freer  land. 

Ave  Amice !     If  around  this  board 

Are  they  who  watched  you  thro'  laborious  years, 
Beyond  these  walls,  in  many  a  grateful  home, 

Your  step  dismissed  a  thousand  pallid  fears. 

That  kindly  face,  that  gravely  tender  look, 

Thro'  darkened  hours  how  many  a  mother  knew ! 

And  in  that  look  won  sweet  reprieve  of  hope, 

Sure  that  all  earth  could  give  was  there  with  you. 

Ave  Magister !     Many  be  the  years 

That  lie  before  you,  thronged  with  busy  hours ! 
Ave  Amice !     Take  our  earnest  prayer 

That  all  their  ways  fair  fortune  strew  with  flowers. 


IN    MEMORY   OF   W.    H.    DRUMMOND       429 
IN  MEMORY  OF  WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND 

THE    CANADIAN    POET 

PEACE  to  his  poet  soul.     Full  well  he  knew 
To  sing  for  those  who  know  not  how  to  praise 

The  woodsman's  life,  the  farmer's  patient  toil, 
The  peaceful  drama  of  laborious  days. 

He  made  his  own  the  thoughts  of  simple  men, 
And  with  the  touch  that  makes  the  world  akin, 

A  welcome  guest  of  lonely  cabin-homes, 
Found,  too,  no  heart  he  could  not  enter  in. 

The  toil-worn  doctor,  women,  children,  men, 
The  humble  heroes  of  the  lumber  drives, 

Love,  laugh,  or  weep  along  his  peopled  verse, 
Blithe  'mid  the  pathos  of  their  meagre  lives. 

While  thus  the  poet-love  interpreted, 

He  left  us  pictures  no  one  may  forget  — 

Courteau,  Baptiste,  Camille  mon  frere,  and,  best, 
The  good,  brave  cure,  he  of  Calumette. 

With  nature  as  with  man  at  home,  he  loved 
The  silent  forest  and  the  birches'  flight 

Down  the  white  peril  of  the  rapids'  rush, 
And  the  cold  glamor  of  the  Northern  night. 

Some  mystery  of  genius  haunts  his  page, 
Some  wonder-secret  of  the  poet's  spell 

Died  with  this  master  of  the  peasant  thought. 
Peace  to  this  Northland  singer,  and  farewell ! 


ODE    ON    A    LYCIAN    TOMB 
IN    MEMORIAM 


INTRODUCTION 

On  this  famous  monument,  known  as  Les  Pleu- 
reuses,  and  now  in  the  museum  at  Constanti 
nople,  one  and  the  same  mourning  woman  is 
carved  in  many  attitudes  of  grief.  These 
eighteen  figures  stand  niched  between  Doric 
columns.  Above  and  below  are  funeral  scenes 
—  battle  and  the  chase. 


ODE   ON   A   LYCIAN   TOMB 


WHAT  gracious  nunnery  of  grief  is  here ! 
One  woman  garbed  in  sorrow's  every  mood; 
Each  sad  presentment  celled  apart,  in  fear 
Lest  that  herself  upon  herself  intrude 
And  break  some  tender  dream  of  sorrow's  day, 
Here  cloistered  lonely,  set  in  marble  gray. 

Oh,  pale  procession  of  immortal  love 

Forever  married  to  immortal  grief  ! 

All  life's  high-passioned  sorrow  far  above, 

Past  help  of  time's  compassionate  relief : 

These  changeless  stones  are  treasuries  of  regret 

And  mock  the  term  by  time  for  sorrow  set. 

Ah  me !    What  tired  hearts  have  hither  come 
To  weep  with  thee,  and  give  thy  grief  a  voice; 
And  such  as  have  not  added  to  life's  sum 
The  count  of  loss,  they  who  do  still  rejoice 
In  love  which  time  yet  leaveth  unassailed, 
Here  tremble,  by  prophetic  sadness  paled. 

Thou  who  hast  wept  for  many,  weep  for  me, 
For  surely  I,  who  deepest  grief  have  known, 
Share  thy  stilled  sadness,  which  must  ever  be 
Too  changeless,  and  unending  like  my  own, 

435 


436  ODE   ON    A    LYCIAN    TOMB 

Since  thine  is  woe  that  knows  not  time's  release, 
And  sorrow  that  can  never  compass  peace. 

He  too  who  wrought  this  antique  poetry, 
Which  wakes  sad  rhythms  in  the  human  heart, 
Must  oft  with  thee  have  wondered  silently, 
Touched  by  the  strange  revealments  of  his  art, 
When  at  his  side  you  watched  the  chisel's  grace 
Foretell  what  time  would  carve  upon  thy  face. 

If  to  thy  yearning  silence,  which  in  vain 
Suggests  its  speechless  plea  in  marbles  old, 
We  add  the  anguish  of  an  equal  pain, 
Shall  not  the  sorrow  of  these  statues  cold 
Inherit  memories  of  our  tears,  and  keep 
Record  of  grief  long  time  in  death  asleep? 

Ah  me!     In  death  asleep;  how  pitiful, 

If,  in  that  timeless  time  the  soul  should  wake 

To  wander  heart-blind  where  no  years  may  dull 

Remembrance,  with  a  heart  forbid  to  break. 

—  Dove  of  my  home,  that  fled  life's  stranded  ark, 

The  sea  of  death  is  shelterless  and  dark. — 

Cold  mourner  set  in  stone  so  long  ago, 

Too  much  my  thoughts  have  dwelt  with  thee  apart; 

Again  my  grief  is  young :  full  well  I  know 

The  pang  re-born,  that  mocked  my  feeble  art 

With  that  too  human  wail  in  pain  expressed, 

The  parent  cry  above  the  empty  nest ! 

Come  back,  I  cried.     "  I  may  not  come  again. 
Not  islandless  is  this  uncharted  sea; 


ODE    ON    A    LYCIAN    TOMB  437 

Here  is  no  death,  nor  any  creature's  pain, 

Nor  any  terror  of  what  is  to  be. 

'T  is  but  to  trust  one  pilot;  soon  are  seen 

The  sunlit  peaks  of  thought  and  peace  serene." 

ii 

Fair  worshipper  of  many  gods,  whom  I 
In  one  God  worship,  very  surely  He 
Will  for  thy  tears  and  mine  have  some  reply, 
When  death  assumes  the  trust  of  life,  and  we 
Hear  once  again  the  voices  of  our  dead, 
And  on  a  newer  earth  contented  tread. 

Doubtless  for  thee  thy  Lycian  fields  were  sweet, 

Thy  dream  of  heaven  no  wiser  than  my  own; 

Nature  and  love,  the  sound  of  children's  feet, 

Home,  husbands,  friends;  what  better  hast  thou  known? 

What  of  the  gods  could  ask  thy  longing  prayer 

Except  again  this  earth  and  love  to  share? 

For  all  in  vain  with  vexed  imaginings, 

We  build  of  dreams  another  earth  than  ours, 

And  high  in  thought's  thinned  atmosphere,  with  wings 

That  helpless  beat,  and  mock  our  futile  powers, 

Falter  and  flutter,  seeing  naught  above, 

And  naught  below  except  the  earth  we  love. 

Enough  it  were  to  find  our  own  old  earth 
With  death's  dark  riddle  answered,  and  unspoiled 
By  fear,  or  sin,  or^pain ;  where  joy  and  mirth 
Have  no  sad  shadows,  and  love  is  not  foiled, 
And  where,  companioned  by  the  mighty  dead, 
The  dateless  books  of  time  and  fate  are  read. 


43$  ODE    ON    A    LYCIAN    TOMB 

III 

What  stately  melancholy  doth  possess 

This  innocent  marble  with  eternal  doom ! 

What  most  imperious  grief  doth  here  oppress 

The  one  sad  soul  which  haunts  this  peopled  tomb 

In  many  forms  that  all  these  years  have  worn 

One  thought,  for  time's  long  comment  more  forlorn ! 

Lo  grief,  through  love  instinct  with  silentness, 
Reluctant,  in  these  marbles  eloquent, 
The  ancient  tale  of  loss  doth  here  confess 
The  first  confusing,  mad  bewilderment, 
Life's  unbelief  in  death,  in  love  fore-spent, 
Thought  without  issue,  child-like  discontent. 

Time,  that  for  thee  awhile  did  moveless  seem, 
Again  his  glass  hath  turned :  I  see  thee  stand 
Thought-netted,  or,  like  one  who  in  a  dream 
Self-wildered,  in  some  alien  forest  land 
Lone-wandering,  in  endless  mazes  lost, 
Wearily  stumbles  over  tracks  re-crossed. 

Oft  didst  thou  come  in  after  days  to  leave 
Roses  and  laurel  on  thy  warrior's  grave, 
And  with  thy  marble  self  again  to  grieve, 
Glad  of  what  genius  unto  sorrow  gave, 
Interpreting  what  had  been  and  would  be, 
Love,  tears,  despair,  attained  serenity. 

There  are  whom  sorrow  leaves  full-wrecked.     The  great 
Grow  in  the  urgent  anguish  of  defeat. 
And  with  mysterious  confidence  await 


VESPERAL  439 

The  silent  coming  of  the  bearer's  feet; 
Wherefore  this  quiet  face  so  proudly  set 
To  front  life's  duties,  but  naught  to  forget. 

For  life  is  but  a  tender  instrument 

Whereon  the  master  hand  of  grief  doth  fall, 

Leaving  love's  vibrant  tissue  resonant 

With  echoes,  ever  waking  at  the  call 

Of  every  kindred  tone :  so  grief  doth  change 

The  instrument  o'er  which  his  fateful  fingers  range. 

1899- 


VESPERAL 

I  KNOW  the  night  is  near  at  hand. 

The  mists  lie  low  on  hill  and  bay, 
The  autumn  sheaves  are  dewless,  dry; 

But  I  have  had  the  day. 

Yes,  I  have  had,  dear  Lord,  the  day ; 

When  at  Thy  call  I  have  the  night, 
Brief  be  the  twilight  as  I  pass 

From  light  to  dark,  from  dark  to  light. 

October   1899. 


NOTES 


NOTES 

FRANCIS    DRAKE. 

THE  difficulty  of  realizing  to-day  the  feelings  and  mo 
tives  of  the  men  of  another  era  is  well  illustrated  in  the 
incidents  on  which  I  have  based  the  dramatic  poem  of 
"  Francis  Drake."  In  the  poetical  telling  of  it  I  have 
adhered  with  reasonable  fidelity  to  the  somewhat  vary 
ing  statements  given  in  "  The  World  Encompassed " 
(1628),  Hakluyt  Society,  No.  16;  the  extracts  of  evidence 
as  to  the  trial  of  Doughty  from  the  Harleian  manuscripts, 
in  the  same  volume;  Barrow's  life  of  Drake;  and  an  ad 
mirable  but  brief  biography  of  the  great  sea-captain  by 
Julius  Corbett,  in  the  series,  "  English  Men  of  Action."  I 
have  had  neither  desire  nor  intention  to  make  of  this 
strange  story  an  acting  drama.  Doughty,  as  he  is  drawn 
by  Mr.  Corbett,  must  have  been,  as  he  says,  an  lago  of  rare 
type.  A  scholar,  a  soldier,  a  gentleman  of  the  Inner  Tem 
ple,  more  or  less  learned  in  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Latin, 
he  seems  to  have  had  great  power  to  attract  the  affections 
of  men.  That  he  betrayed  his  friend's  trust,  and  was 
guilty  of  mutiny,  and  even  of  contemplating  darker 
crime,  appears  probable,  although  as  to  the  details  of  this 
sad  story  we  know  little,  but  small  fragments  of  the  evi 
dence  given  on  the  trial  having  been  preserved.  The 
historian,  more  than  the  poet,  may  well  be  perplexed  at 
the  nobler  characteristics  which  appear  in  this  singular 
being  on  the  approach  of  death.  It  is  here  that  the 

443 


444  NOTES 

judgments  of  to-day  fail  us  before  the  account  of  the 
quiet,  cheerful  talk  1  at  dinner  while  the  headsman  waits. 
An  immense  curiosity  fills  us  as  to  what  was  said.  Then, 
there  are  the  sacrament  taken  with  Drake,  the  final  em 
brace,  the  remarkable  words  of  quotation  from  Sir  Tho 
mas  More,2  omitted  in  the  poem,  and  at  last  the  axe  and 
block.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  there  is  no  woman  in 
this  tragic  story. 


CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

I  have  accepted  the  popular  version  of  Galileo's  famous 
call  to  Rome  to  answer  for  his  intellectual  views.  Much 
doubt  has  of  late  been  thrown  upon  the  received  story  of 
the  peril  to  which  his  visit  subjected  him. 

Long  after  the  period  in  question  grave  men  of  science 
held  to  the  possibility  of  reviving  youth,  and  also  believed 
in  the  transmutability  of  metals. 

Galileo,  trained  as  a  physician,  used  the  pendulum  as 
a  measurer  of  the  pulse,  causing  it  to  beat  even  time 
with  any  special  pulse  by  raising  or  lowering  the  weight 
or  bob.  Thus  the  length  of  the  pendulum  became  a  con 
ventional  measure  of  the  rate  of  the  pulse.  Counting  it 
with  the  aid  of  a  watch,  although  first  practised  in  the 

1  "  They  dined,  also  at  the  same  table  together,  as  cheer 
fully  in  sobriety  as  ever  in  their  lives  they  had  done  afore 
time  ;   each  cheering  up  the  other,  and,  taking  their  leave, 
by  drinking    each   to   other,   as    if    some   journey   only   had 
been  in  hand."     ("The  World  Encompassed,"  p.  67.    Hak- 
luyt  Society's  edition.) 

2  Doughty  is  credited   in   one   account  of   his   death  with 
saying  to  the  executioner,  when   about  to  lay  his  head  on 
the  block,  "  As  good  Sir  Thomas  More  said,  '  I  fear  thou 
wilt  have  little  honesty    [i.e.,  credit]    of  so  short   a  neck.'  " 


NOTES  445 

reign  of  Anne,  was  never  common  until  the  present  cen 
tury. 

That  "  frail  English  boy  "  was  William  Harvey,  the 
discoverer  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 

THE  VIOLIN. 

The  belief  that  it  is  sinful  to  touch  that  which  the 
shadow  of  the  cross  falls  upon  is  a  medieval  fancy,  but  I 
cannot  now  recall  where  I  have  seen  it  mentioned. 

I  am  indebted  to  Professor  T.  F.  Crane,  of  Cornell 
University,  for  the  strange  legendary  story  of  the  thirty 
pieces  of  silver.  I  have,  of  course,  taken  great  liberties 
with  the  old  Latin  version,  as  to  which  Professor  Crane 
says: 

"  The  legend  of  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  is  found  only 
in  Gottfried  of  Viterbo's  '  Pantheon,'  a  rare  work  re 
printed  in  Scriptores  Rerum  Germanicorum,  Ratisbon, 
1726  (ed.  Pistorius  and  Stoure).  I  have  copied  it  from 
M.  du  Meril,  Poesies  Populaires  Latines  du  Moyen  Age, 
Paris,  1847,  p.  321,  also  a  scarce  work.  I  do  not  know 
of  any  other  accessible  version,  although  the  legend  was 
copied  from  Gottfried  by  various  legend-writers  of  the 
time.  Where  Gottfried  got  it  I  cannot  tell." 

FRANCOIS   VILLON. 

Francois  Villon,  born  1431,  poet,  thief,  vagabond,  led 
a  life  of  excesses  in  which  were  sharp  experiences  of  the 
prison  and  the  torture-chamber.  His  ballad  "  Des  Pen- 
dus  "  was  written  in  1461,  whilst  he  was  under  sentence 
of  death.  Soon  after  he  is  lost  to  history,  and  becomes 
fair  subject  for  the  imagination.  There  is  not  the  least 
foundation  in  any  known  facts  for  the  story  I  have  la 
belled  with  his  name. 


446  NOTES 


CERVANTES. 

Cervantes,  who  lost  a  hand  at  Lepanto,  was  for  five 
years  a  prisoner  in  Algiers,  and  on  his  release  lived  a  life 
of  sad  vicissitudes,  dying  in  want  on  the  23d  of  April, 
1616,  the  day  of  Shakespeare's  death.  Where  lie  the 
bones  of  the  creator  of  Don  Quixote  is  wholly  unknown. 

HERNDON. 

On  Sept.  12,  1857,  the  Central  America  was  lost  at  sea. 
Captain  Herndon  of  the  navy  was  in  command.  His 
tranquil  courage  preserved  discipline  up  to  the  last,  and 
until  his  passengers,  officers,  and  crew  were  all  in  the 
boats.  Seeing  that  the  last  boat  was  already  overloaded, 
Captain  Herndon  refused  to  add  to  its  danger,  and,  order 
ing  it  off,  went  down  with  his  ship. 

GRAVES    OF   REGICIDES. 

The  regicides  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Martin,  at 
Vevey,  are  Broughton,  Ludlow,  and  Phelps.  The  tomb 
stones  of  the  first  two  are  visible.  Phelps  has  recently 
been  commemorated  by  a  stone  placed  upon  the  wall  by 
the  American  descendants  of  his  family, —  the  Phelpses 
of  New  England  and  New  Jersey.  Ludlow  and  Brough 
ton  lived  to  a  great  age  at  Vevey,  and  so,  also,  I  believe, 
did  Phelps,  of  whom  less  is  known. 

KEARSARGE. 

On  Sunday  morning,  June  19,  1864,  the  noise  of  the 
cannon  during  the  fight  between  the  Kearsarge  and  the 
Alabama  was  heard  in  English  churches  near  the  Channel. 


NOTES  447 


DOMINIQUE    DE   GOURGUES. 

In  1565,  Menendez,  an  officer  of  Philip  II.  in  Florida, 
put  to  death,  under  circumstances  of  strange  atrocity,  two 
hundred  and  eighty  French  Huguenots,  most  of  whom 
were  driven  by  starvation  to  surrender  at  discretion. 
Dominique  de  Gourgues,  a  French  soldier,  avenged  this 
massacre  as  I  have  described,  devoting  to  this  purpose 
his  fortune,  and  exposing  himself  to  the  malice  of  his  own 
King,  Charles  IX.  I  have  used  a  poet's  license  in  the 
introduction  of  a  supernatural  influence.  The  tale  is  told 
at  length  by  my  friend  the  late  Francis  Parkman,  in  his 
"  Pioneers  of  France  in  the  New  World." 


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